The Story of Us
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: Money is tight for Jackson and April, and things get harder once they realize April is pregnant with twins. They must make the impossible decision to separate and, consequentially, separate their daughters. Their fault line seems irreparable. But when April is called back to Chicago from Nantucket, life and love (and the power of twins) prove how resilient family really is.
1. Chapter 1

**APRIL**

When I hear Jackson's key wiggle around in the door, I'm in the kitchen stirring a saucepan filled with marinara. With my hip popped to the side and my hair up in a careless bun, I should be relieved that he's home. But I know he's just as tired as I am, if not more so.

"Hey, babe," he calls, his words followed by the thump of his bag hitting the floor.

"Hey," I respond, sticking my finger in the sauce to test it. It's not quite ready. "I'm in here making dinner."

He appears in the small entryway to the kitchen, in the space that houses our dining room table. And a few feet away from that is our couch and small TV, precariously leaning against the wall. We've been scouring alleys for a nightstand or some sort of dresser to set it on, but haven't had any luck.

"Spaghetti?" he asks, coming to stand behind me.

"Yeah."

He wraps his arms around my middle and flattens his hands over the baby bump, grown substantially now. Instead of just mildly pudgy, it looks like a half-inflated beach ball under my shirt now. "How was your day?" he asks, resting his face in the crook of my neck.

I don't bother telling him that I'm sweaty, grimy and smell like the oil that they use in the kitchen at Big Star, the taco place in Wrigleyville where I work. That was where I was for the second half of the day, and I spent the morning at a client's house, polishing silver. It's Tuesday, so that means silver day for the Kleins.

"Fine," I say, sighing. "Long."

"Good tips?" he asks.

"Not bad, not great," I say, then turn around to wind my arms around his neck. "How 'bout yours?"

"Someone stole my last charger," he says, referencing the chargers he keeps in his car when he drives for Uber. "So, that sucked. I filed a claim, but I know they won't do shit. I'm just gonna have to get some more."

"You don't have to," I say. "People don't _need_ those in the car."

"It's nice, though," he says. "It gets me good ratings. And I _need_ those."

"Yeah, I know," I say, then turn back to the stove. "Did you work at the site today? I can't remember."

"Nah," he says. "Off day."

"Well, that's good," I say.

"You should sit down," he says. "I'll finish up. You were on your feet all day, and I was sitting. Didn't the doctor say something about you chilling out?"

"I can't remember," I say.

"Go sit," he says. "I can handle spaghetti."

I give him a playful smile and ask, "You sure?"

"Get outta here," he says, smacking me on the butt. "I'll come get you when it's ready."

"Jackson, I'm honestly fine," I insist.

"Why you gotta be so stubborn?" he asks, then easily picks me up. "Gotta fight me on everything. Geez, what am I gonna do with you, woman?"

I laugh and go slack in his arms while saying, "Send me to the moon."

"I'll send you to the closest place," he says, setting me down. "The couch. There. Good enough."

I rest my head on a threadbare throw pillow and look up at him, and we meet eyes for a meaningful moment. With a small smile, he leans down and kisses my forehead, brushing hair out of my eyes as he stands up. "Pretty girl," he says.

"Yeah, I doubt it," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Well, don't," he says, holding my jaw as he kisses my lips. "I missed you today."

I cup his face with both hands and stroke his cheekbones with my thumbs, savoring this small, sweet moment. Lately, we're both so busy with our differing schedules, that we don't get many of them. "Missed you, too," I say.

"If I don't get back in there, the sauce is gonna burn," he says. "But looking at you is so much more fun."

"Oh, your life is awful," I say. "The choices you have to make!"

He laughs and skims his hand lower to cup my pregnant belly, rubbing in circles as the baby kicks. "There he is," Jackson says, then pushes up my shirt to kiss the skin above my belly button a few times. "Hey, little dude. Were you good for your mama today?"

"Super active," I say, framing the sides of my stomach. "More and more every day. It's insane. I'm pretty sure Mrs. Klein thinks I'm on drugs. I was using the bathroom so much today."

Jackson laughs again. "I'm sure she didn't think that."

"You don't know this lady."

The oven sizzles, letting us know that water has spilled from the pasta pot and onto the range below. "Ooh, shit," Jackson says. "Back in a few. You and Mr. Man get some rest. I got everything under control."

…

That night, after filling up on spaghetti and garlic bread, I'm mentally tired and physically, even more so. I missed Jackson after a long day apart, but the exhaustion was more powerful than my libido. I promised him, as I lifted his hand out from between my thighs, that we'd find time this weekend.

Now, as the sun comes up and I lie here while he sleeps, I shake my head to myself. When did we become the couple who had to 'find time' for sex? We're 23, barely out of college, yet we already act like life has beaten us down.

But in a lot of ways, it has. We both work long hours in thankless jobs. And thankless is how I would describe them on a good day. On a bad day, they're pointless. They have nothing to do with our degrees, and most of the time our paychecks barely keep our heads above water. With the baby coming, the looming stress is all the more heavy. With every break we catch, something else knocks us back down. I never expected 'real life' to be this hard.

I close my eyes and cover my face with my hands, thinking of the day that lies ahead. I have a doctor's appointment that gets me out of a morning of cleaning - it's Wednesday, which means I'm leaving the Richardson family until Friday - but afterwards, I have to make it to Big Star by 1pm. It might be a stretch, given that the hospital and restaurant are on two separate sides of the city and lunch traffic is thick in the summer, but I'll have to make it work.

Jackson's alarm goes off on his nightstand, which makes me jump. Furrowing my eyebrows, I turn onto my side to watch him switch it off and rub his eyes, tired and slow as he always is in the morning.

When he starts to get up, groaning under his breath as he goes, I touch his back softly. "Where are you going?" I ask.

He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. "Got work," he mumbles.

"No," I say. "Today's Wednesday. My appointment is this morning. Remember?" There's a heavy pause where he doesn't respond. "Jackson."

"Yeah," he says, standing up. He stretches his arms high above his head, pants sagging so I can see the hair far below his belly button. It doesn't distract me, though. My mind is on other things. "I remember. I asked for it off, but Sloan called in last night. He's got the flu, or some shit, I don't know. They need the hands. I gotta go in."

"So, you have to miss the ultrasound?" I say, though I already know the answer.

"Yeah, baby, I'm sorry," he says.

I shake my head and huff. "You didn't have to say yes," I say. "You asked for it off before he called in. Couldn't they have found someone else?"

"They asked me," he says. "And we're not really at a place where I can turn down hours."

"Yes, I know," I snap.

"I'll make it up to you," he says.

I sigh again. "You don't have to," I say. "I get it. It's just… not fair. You haven't been able to see him move yet. I hate your job. It's like they don't want you to see your son."

"Fuck them," he says, walking into the bathroom to turn the shower on.

"Don't they get that it's important?" I ask. "I mean, it's your kid. And your kid's mom. I mean… you'd think they'd be more understanding."

"Well, they're dicks over there," he says.

I flop back down and rest my head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling as he gets into the shower. Our apartment is so small that the air around me thickens with steam, and I allow my eyes to close. "Is it gonna be this bad when he's born?" I ask.

"Huh?"

I sit up, sending my voice further. "Once the baby is born, is your work even gonna let you spend time with him? Or are we gonna have to throw him in daycare right away?"

"We're not gonna do that. You get some leave, right?"

"Yeah, a little," I say. "But not much." I pause, thinking. "Do you get _any_?"

"I don't know," he says.

"You haven't asked?"

"Not yet."

"Why?" I don't wait for him to answer. "Jackson, you can't be afraid of what they're gonna say."

"They're gonna say no. Then what, Mini?"

"Then, you quit," I answer simply.

He lets out a long sigh. "Yeah, it's not that easy."

"You can do Uber at night and stay home with the baby during the day."

"And sleep when?"

"New parents never sleep," I say. "That's like, rule number one. We just have to make it through."

The shower turns off a few minutes later and I'm still at a loss. The look on Jackson's face as he towel-dries his hair tells me that he's feeling much of the same way, but won't talk about it. He's not always great at talking about it. "We'll be fine," he says distractedly, stepping into his jeans. "Always are."

I inhale and exhale deeply, knowing that he hears. "Yeah," I say, though my heart isn't in it. "I just wish one thing was easy. Anything. I just wanna catch one break."

I look up at him as he comes over to drop a kiss on my forehead. "It'll come," he says. "Promise."

He puts on his construction boots and laces them, doubled over, before standing up straight again. "Have a good day," I say weakly.

"You, too," he says. "I can't wait to see the new pictures of Little Man. I'm gonna be thinking about it all day."

That makes me smile. "Okay," I say. "See you tonight."

…

I ride the bus to the appointment alone, going south towards UChicago Medicine. Our little boy is doing flips inside me, apparently excited to be on the big screen, but I can only match his enthusiasm halfway. I'm happy, but I wish Jackson were here with me. I realize that wishing doesn't do anything, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking about it.

Today is my 24-week ultrasound. I hit the official six-month mark last week, but something about my pregnancy still doesn't feel real. The symptoms are real enough - the swollen ankles, sensitive bladder, and growing belly, of course - but the concept that there's a human inside me is still so foreign. It's like this whole process has been a dream, and I have yet to wake up. I don't know what's wrong with me, but it doesn't feel like me and the baby have even bonded.

I haven't told anyone that, not even Jackson. I'm not close to my parents, so the subject is off-limits with my mom. I don't have any girlfriends. So, this is a thought that I've been keeping to myself, and it's been weighing me down like nothing else. It's not like anything is wrong with the baby. It's more along the lines of that something is wrong with me. I thought all women felt like mothers once they got pregnant, and it's the men who don't assume their role as a father until they hold the babies in their arms.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'll even feel like this baby boy's mother then.

When my stop comes, I get up and people let me off. Being visibly pregnant does have its perks in Chicago; people are a lot nicer to me now. I get offered seats all the time, but it feels strange to take them. I'm still me, just a little fatter. Sure, my feet are tired, but aren't everyone's?

I wait in the lobby for a bit until my name is called, then get my vitals taken as always. The nurse gets me prepped in a dark room, then tells me that my doctor will be in shortly. I wait only a few minutes before there's a soft knock on the door, and a woman I don't recognize walks in.

"Hi, April," she says warmly. "I'm Dr. Quinn. How are we doing today?" I prop myself up on my elbows to study this woman. She's comfortable in the room, coming over to the stool beside the monitor to sit down and organize her things. "You feeling okay?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I say. "I just… all the times I've been here before, there was a different girl. Lady. Doctor."

"Oh," she says. "Yes, that was my tech. Iris?"

"Yeah," I say, as the name rings a bell.

"Yep, she was taking over a few days a week," Dr. Quinn says. "But I'm back to a full-time schedule now. I hope that's alright with you."

"No, it's fine," I say, laying back. Dr. Quinn actually makes me feel a lot more secure than Iris did. She's older, for one, and probably has more experience. It's only natural to feel more trusting.

"So, I was looking over your file," Dr. Quinn says, leafing through a few papers. "And I wanted to talk to you about something that stuck out to me." My whole body tenses, and she notices. "Nothing bad," she says with a smile. "But the notes that Iris left about the images taken don't quite match up, at least in my mind, with your blood samples."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

She shows me a sheet of paper and I look at it, only to find I can't understand a single thing written. It's all in doctor-speak, so I let Dr. Quinn explain. "According to your three previous sonograms, you're experiencing a single pregnancy. A healthy male, correct?"

"Yes," I say warily.

"Now, I could be wrong," she says. "But there's a hormone that's always present in pregnant women called hCG. It can vary, sometimes certain women just have more of it than others. But in your case, it's leading me to believe that something wasn't read correctly on your images."

I blink hard, staring at the paper, then looking back to her. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand," I say. "You're saying my hormone levels are too high? Is that bad?"

"No, you're perfectly healthy," Dr. Quinn assures me. "I think there was an error on our end. If you don't mind, I'd like to get an idea of what's going on in there. Then I can explain better."

"Sure," I say, lying back and lifting my shirt.

"I don't mean to scare you," she says, squirting the gel onto my skin. "This isn't a bad thing. I just want to make sure I'm right before I go spouting anything off." She smiles to herself, looking at the screen. "I've learned to think before I speak."

I laugh nervously, barely listening as the picture comes to life. Is there something wrong with my baby? Is this God's way of punishing me for what went through my head? I don't feel attached to my baby, so because of that, he's going to be ripped away from me? I won't be able to live with myself if there's something wrong with him. It'll definitely have been my fault.

"Yep… that's just what I thought," Dr. Quinn says, and she's still smiling. That has to be a good sign.

"What?" I say.

"See this right here?" she asks, tracing a curved shape on the screen. "That's your baby's head."

"Okay…"

She traces another shape, one almost completely hidden by the first. "And that?" she says.

"Kind of."

"That's her sibling. April, you're having twins."

I stare at her in shock, mouth open and everything. My heart seems to stop, and I feel like I'm falling. "What?" I say, although I heard her perfectly well.

"I am so sorry for the prior mixup," she says. "Iris is still learning. And Baby B is pretty hard to see back there, hiding behind their sister."

"Sister?" I say.

"Baby A is definitely a girl," Dr. Quinn says. "Clear as day. Now, I can't be sure about Baby B, unless… hold on a minute, we're getting some movement…" She moves the sensor around and I hold my breath. I don't know if that helps or hinders the process. "There we go. Yes, Baby B is a girl as well. You, my lucky lady, are having a pair of identical twin girls."

I swallow hard, gaping at the screen. I see them, both of them, curled around each other. I see the black dots of their hearts beating, and the spindly lines of their arms and legs. Not much more, but there are clearly two babies on that screen. Two babies inside me. They've been there the whole time, and neither of them are boys.

There's no 'Little Man' to speak of. There are two 'Little Girls,' and there's no disputing it.

I feel the wetness on my cheeks before I realize that I'm crying. Dr. Quinn hands me a few tissues with a smile, but all I can do is hold onto them. I don't wipe my face or try and quell my sniffling, I just let it happen.

"This isn't exactly common this far along," she says, wiping the gel off my stomach. "I'll definitely be speaking to Iris about her techniques. I can understand how overwhelming this is for you - everything changed so fast." She smiles at me again; something tells me she thinks I'm crying happy tears.

But I'm not.

Jackson and I are in the hole enough as it is without a baby to support. One baby. I wasn't sure how we were going to support our child once he came, but now that idea is done. In three months, we'll have two babies to clothe and feed, and two babies to make room for. We barely have space for two people in that apartment, let alone four.

I have no idea how we're going to do this. None at all.

"I'll get your printouts," Dr. Quinn says. "And let you clean up."

When she leaves, I sit up and hold my stomach with both hands. I let out a long breath as my mind goes blank and my head goes numb. I don't know what the next step is. I don't know how I'm going to tell Jackson.

This was never supposed to happen, but it did. And now we have to find some way, any way, to roll with it.

…

I didn't call Jackson after my appointment, and I didn't text him. I hadn't told him that I would, but it still feels like some kind of betrayal. So far, we've been on the same page with everything about my pregnancy. He knew everything I knew. And now, that is very far from the truth. I have no idea how he'll react. He knows that we're in dire straits, but sometimes his outlook tends to be more positive than mine. Probably because he's not the one carrying two lives inside him.

He and I were high school sweethearts. We went to a big school and didn't meet until senior prom, though we had both come with other people. But my date ditched me because he wanted to get drunk with his friends, and Jackson found his date in the janitor's closet with the running-back of the football team. All I wanted to do was go home, but we weren't allowed to leave until we were signed out, or midnight came along. So, I was stuck. Luckily, so was he.

I was outside in my dark blue dress, leaning onto the railing and staring at the forest a few acres away from the venue. It was peaceful and quiet, and that's what I wanted most. I had only come to prom because Owen, my date from hell, wouldn't leave me alone. He was my brother, Julian's, best friend, so there was a sort of obligation there.

Jackson joined me on the balcony and we traded our awful stories and laughed like we'd known each other forever. I spent the last slow dance of the night with him, on that balcony, as the music lilted through the air above where we swayed. It only took that night for me to fall in love with him, but we didn't start dating until the summer after senior year, when we decided to go to the same college in Chicago. After that, we were inseparable, and the rest of the story tells itself.

When he comes through the door, sweaty and dusty from the site, our origin story drifts away and the nerve-wracking present returns to the forefront of my mind. "Hey, boo," he says, back turned as he takes off his dirty boots. The back of his shirt is soaked with sweat - a sure sign that he had a long and taxing day.

It's not a good time to tell him. He's exhausted; I can tell by the sound of those two words alone. So, I preface the news with something else.

"Can we borrow money from your mom?" I ask, forcing the words out quickly so there's no chance to take them back.

He narrows his eyes, turning to look at me. He scrubs one hand over his face as his expression morphs into confusion. "What?" he says. "What are you talking about?"

"Your mom," I say. "Can we ask her for a loan?"

He frowns, which lets me know that he's shutting down. "Nah," he says. "I'm never asking her for anything."

I had a feeling he would say that, but I don't plan on giving up. "I know you two don't really speak," I say. "But it's important."

"We're doing fine," he says. "She doesn't need to get involved. That's when the issues start… when my mom gets involved. With anything."

"We're not actually doing fine," I say. "We couldn't afford cable last month."

"We barely have time for TV anyway," he says.

"But what if next month, it's electric?" I ask. "Or water? Or heat?"

"It's June."

I let out an exasperated sigh. "It won't be June forever. And we can't keep going like this. I can't… we're not gonna keep making it. We need help."

"What about your family?" he asks. I also figured he would go there. I would, too, if I were him.

"They don't have anything to give, you know that," I say. "And I haven't talked to them in over a year. They probably wouldn't even pick up the phone. You know how my mom and dad feel about us living together."

"What about Jules?"

"Julian?" I say. "He doesn't have anything. He lives in their basement, last time I heard."

"Jesus," Jackson says. "Well, I don't know, babe. But we're not gonna end up in anyone's basement, I promise. It'll get better. We're gonna find something soon."

My eyes get hot, along with my cheeks and chest. "Jackson," I say, voice wavering. "I'm being serious. You need to put your pride aside and ask your mom for help. We need it. We need it really bad."

"It won't ever get bad enough to ask her," he says.

"It is!" I say. "It already is that bad."

"We have a roof over our heads, don't we?" he says. "I go to work all day, every day, and so do you. We make it work. Sometimes, I don't know how we do, but we do. We're not gonna find a place cheaper than this that's not a million miles away from our jobs. We've looked, baby, and I know it's hard right now, but-"

"I can't keep doing this," I say. "I'm tired, Jackson. And I'm worried."

"Take the day off tomorrow," he says. "Both jobs. And just take a day to rest."

"It's not that," I say. "That won't help. I mean long-term. I can't keep living like this, barely making ends meet, and stressing every month. I'm not happy. And I know you're not, either."

"But we make it work," he says.

"It shouldn't be this hard," I say. "It's only going to get harder."

"What, when Little Man comes?" Jackson asks, and my throat tightens. "We've talked about that. We're gonna put in some more hours and get a little bit of savings going. We know how to be poor. We'll be okay. He'll be scrappy, just like you, right?"

I shake my head - slow at first, then quicker.

"What?" he says, taking a step closer. He curls my hair behind my ears and wipes some tears away, resting a hand on my shoulder after. "Did you find out something bad at the doctor's today?"

"No…" I begin. "Yes… no, I don't know."

"What?" he says. "What's going on?"

I take a deep breath and know that everything after this will be different. Nothing will come easily ever again. But there's no way for him not to find out. He has to know. And I have to be the one to tell him.

"We're not having a boy," I say, and I keep talking before he can ask any questions. "We're having girls. Two girls. Identical twins."

Much like I did after I received the news, all he does is stare. He blinks a few times, steadily into my eyes, but there's no readable feeling behind his expression. His hand stays on my shoulder, but it's gone heavy and limp. I don't know what he's thinking, but I can almost find comfort in that. Because I don't know what I'm thinking, either.

We should feel lucky. We should feel blessed. How ungrateful is it to dread what some families would die for?

"You said… you said twins?" he finally stammers.

"Yeah," I answer. "Girls. They're healthy, and… I… I have a picture. But the other OB made a mistake. Apparently, a lot of mistakes. There's no boy in there at all. Two girls."

I pull the sonogram from my jeans pocket and show him. It's a bit folded at the corners, so he smoothes out the creases before studying it. "Damn," he says. "No shit. There's two." Then, he looks to my stomach. "How did we not know?"

"I don't know," I say. "How did _they_ not know?"

"Yeah," he says. "True."

It's clear neither of us really know what to say. For a while, we just stand there in silence while Jackson scrutinizes the sonogram like he expects to find a third baby pictured.

Then, the alarm on his phone goes off. "Shit," he says. "I gotta get on the road. You want me to take you to work?"

After my appointment, I switched shifts with someone at Big Star so I could work tonight instead of this afternoon. When I told Jackson that, I had no idea that we'd part ways like this. I didn't exactly think we'd be celebrating, but this numb silence where neither of us know what to say was furthest from my expectations. This isn't like us. We usually figure things out together, but the confusion is isolating.

"Sure," I say. "Let me change real fast."

The car ride is quiet, too. He turns up the radio to drown out the uncomfortable static between us, but both of us know it's there. When he pulls up in front of the restaurant, I lean in for a kiss on the cheek that he readily gives me. "Love you," he says. "Pick you up at 10."

"Okay," I say. "Love you."

I paste on a smile once I walk through the doors and wait tables as I always would. I don't tell any of my coworkers the news I was told today, nor do I plan to. Not until it's absolutely necessary. I'm not sure if it ever will be. I don't think I'll be able to work here after they're born. There's no way I'll be able to find time. We won't be able to afford to pay someone to watch twins if we were already struggling to find affordable daycare for a single baby.

As I count my tips at the end of the night, I can't help but start to cry for what feels like the millionth time today. It's not enough. I'm a good waitress, but it's never enough, and I don't have the experience to try and get a job at a higher-tipping place. As with most everything else in life, I'm stuck.

Still wearing my crumb-covered apron, I wait for Jackson at the curb with my tips in my pocket. When I see his car, the Uber light turns off and he smiles at me through the windshield, pulling right next to the curb.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, rolling down the passenger's side window. "Need a ride?"

"Yeah," I say. Seeing his face and hearing his stupid jokes makes me smile through my exhaustion.

"Where to?" he asks, both hands on the wheel.

I get situated, stretching the seat belt around my bump, when I notice a conglomeration of mismatched flowers in a half-full Starbucks cup. They're different types, sizes, and lengths, but tied together with a rubber band like some sort of bouquet.

"What's this?" I ask, picking them up by the stems.

"Oh!" he says, then grins. "Shit. Wait. Can I see them?"

I hand them over only to have him hand them right back to me with a cheesy smile. I can't help but snort.

"These are for you, Mini. And I know what you're thinking. These look like I pulled over after dropping each customer off and picked a few from nearby gardens. And, well, you'd be right. But it's the thought that counts, right?"

I hold the poor-man's bouquet close to my chest and let a few tears leak from my eyes. These tears are different from all the others from today, though. These tears are good. These tears are thankful.

"Yeah," I say, all choked up.

He kisses me, holding my chin in one hand. "I don't want you to worry, sweet girl," he says. "Whatever happens, I'm gonna figure it out. I'm gonna be here to take care of you, and those two girls. Okay?"

I nod, sniffling as I say, "Okay."

"Now," he says, holding the steering wheel with one hand as the other rests on my thigh. "Let's go home."


	2. Chapter 2

**JACKSON**

Even with the air conditioner going full blast, April still has the covers kicked off. I can barely get at them, they're all twisted by her ankles, but the heat radiating off her body tends to be enough for me. In her seventh month of pregnancy, she's a human furnace.

The sun is barely up, just peeking above the horizon as I roll onto my side to look at her. It's rare that she's been able to find a moment of peace; lately, she's always worrying about something. The internet, the doctor, and I have all told her that it's not good for the babies to stress so much, but she claims she can't help it. Then she gets frustrated with me for not worrying _enough_.

She was my world before she got pregnant, at least that's what I thought. I had no idea the love I have for her could transcend to another level. My coworkers who are dads already tell me that it's going to get even stronger once the twins are born, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around that. Looking at April, my heart is already full to bursting. I have no idea how it can get any fuller.

She adjusts her legs a bit, straightening them and flexing her feet. Her legs have been restless and tingly since the babies have gotten bigger, and she moves now more than ever in her sleep. I can tell by the pattern of her breathing that she's still deeply gone, and I'm glad. She deserves as much rest as she can get. I never wake her unless I absolutely have to.

I kiss the round of her shoulder and rest a hand on her belly, secretly hoping that the babies are up even if their mama isn't. I'm not disappointed, either. Almost as soon as I touch April's skin, I feel kicks from beneath it. I smile against her nightshirt, closing my eyes for a moment as the babies spin. One foot presses against my palm, strong and sure, and I press softly back. We play a version of patty cake for a while, then I sit up to simply observe the footprint through April's stomach. I've spent every day of this pregnancy with her, yet I'm still amazed. The love of my life, the one I met when we were dumb teenagers, is carrying my two daughters. She's the reason they're alive, and I am so thankful.

I wonder what high school Jackson and April would think of us now. We had our first dance before we had our first kiss; I knew I loved her from the start. But still, I acted like an idiot. I couldn't form a coherent sentence around her, and I frequently forgot my own name. We went to Pizza Hut on our first date, and I spilled sauce all over my white shirt. I took her to a drive-in movie afterwards, and the whole car smelled like marinara sauce. It was very distracting and a little gross.

I never saw it coming when she suggested I take the shirt off. The look on my face must have told her everything, because she turned a brighter red than I had seen anyone else turn in my life, and that cracked us both up. She shoved a blanket at me and couldn't meet my eyes for the rest of the night.

After that, we barely spent a moment apart. It was rare to see one of us without the other, so it only made sense that we chose the same college – Loyola - where I went for pre-med and she went for art history. We lived in the same dorm building our freshman and sophomore years, then moved into the place we live now in junior year. It seemed a lot bigger then.

Clearly, this pregnancy wasn't planned. But we've never been a celibate couple, though her parents cringe at that. More than cringe, actually – currently, they aren't speaking to us. After we moved in together, things were icy, but once she got pregnant, they cut off communication entirely. I know that hurt April more than she lets on. It's not her favorite subject to talk about.

As if she can sense I'm thinking about her, April rolls to face me. A book that had been resting on her hip falls to hit the mattress, and I see it's the baby names book she'd been poring over last night as she fell asleep.

"What were you looking at…" I mutter to myself, thumbing through the pages until I find the ones that are dog-eared. There are only two, so I stop on the first to see a single name not only circled but highlighted as well.

_Clementine [KLEHM-ehn-tiyn]_

_Feminine form of Clement, which is derived from the Latin "clemens", meaning mild and gentle. _

I raise my eyebrows, having never heard the name before. Isn't that a type of orange? I take a deep breath and move onto the next marked page, seeing only one name is circled there as well.

_Skye [SKY]_

_A name of Scottish and English origin, meaning adventurer, protector, and scholar. _

"Clementine and Skye, huh?" I say, chuckling. These names are the most "April" names I've ever heard.

At the sound of my laugh, she inhales deeply and blinks open her eyes only to close them again. "What's funny?" she murmurs.

"You're up," I say, glancing over. I love her in the morning when she's all soft and bleary, barely awake. Right now, she's rubbing her eyes and scrunching up her face, turning her head down and to one side with a low growl. "Sleep good?"

"I think I peed forty times."

"Maybe we should get you an adult diaper. Or a catheter."

"Ha," she says, scooting closer. Then, she sees what I was looking at. "Is that my book?"

"Yeah," I say, flipping between the pages she'd marked. "Clementine and Skye, huh?"

She balks a little, looking at me with wide, guarded eyes. "I've just been thinking about them," she says, taking the book back. "You weren't supposed to see that yet."

"I thought we talked about Norbert," I say.

She shoots me a look with crinkled eyebrows. "_You_ talked about Norbert. I was not sold. And plus, they're girls now."

"Technically, they've always been girls."

"You know what I mean, and you just argued against your own point. What did you want to call them, Norbertina and Norbertella?"

"That does have a nice ring to it," I say, tucking my face into her neck to blow a raspberry on her skin.

"Jackie!" she squeals, shrieking the nickname that only she's allowed to use. She lets out a big, loud cackle, the crazy kind where she throws her head back, and I blow another raspberry on her open throat.

"Mini!" I shout in return, kissing her cheek. "Seriously, though. Are we gonna name our child after a fruit?"

"It's more than that," she says. "Didn't you see what the name means? It's perfect."

"What if she gets made fun of?"

"That won't happen," April says, convinced. "We won't let that happen."

"And they'll be tough kids."

"Of course. But not too tough. They're allowed to be soft, too," she says. "And we can call her Clemmie. Don't you think that's cute?"

"It's… something," I say, teasing her.

"Do you really not like it?" she asks, and her eyes are a little wounded. "I should've asked you before I got attached. But those two… I don't know, they just felt right. And I just kept them to myself, which wasn't right. So, if you really don't like them, we can keep looking."

"No," I say, framing her face with one hand. I stroke her cheekbone with my thumb and her eyes soften, melting a little as they usually do before she cries. And lately, she cries at the drop of a hat. "I like it. I like them both. If you like them, I do, too."

"You don't have to do that. We can talk about it."

"Baby, I want you to make the decisions. You're holding two damn babies inside you. I think it's your right."

"But if you don't like the name, that's just silly. You're gonna be saying that name for the rest of your life."

The rest of my life. That's a big thought to wrap my head around. Of course, it's obvious, I will know my children for the rest of my life. But it's such a huge amount of time, the biggest any human can conceptualize at once. And we're about to bring two people into the world who will experience that with us. They're our responsibility. Their lives will become ours, and ours theirs.

I take a moment to sit with that. It's admittedly not the easiest concept to grapple with, but not in a bad way. More like an existential way.

"I like the name," I say. I don't love it, that's true. But she does. And there are plenty of names worse than Clementine. If April loves it, that's what we'll call our daughter. I don't want her as anything else, because this is what April picked. "She should be Clementine. Clemmie. Clemmie and Skye."

"Yeah?" April asks, eyebrows up and eyes shiny. I hope these are happy tears. Sometimes, I have a hard time discerning.

"Yeah," I say. "She's never gonna run into another one, that's for sure. Right?"

"That's exactly what I thought," she says excitedly. "And it's easy enough to spell and say. And it flows so pretty with Skye." She gives me a kiss. "Thanks for warming up. Because I really, really love it."

And I really, really love her. That's become all that matters. "Might be hard to fit on a backpack," I say.

She gives me a funny look, then wipes it away. "Well, we can't afford that anyway," she says.

Of course. I shouldn't have said that. It was meant to be a joke, but as of late, everything comes back to money - or the lack of it.

"No, I know," I say. "Maybe we could get them each a monogrammed blanket, though. For their cribs."

"I don't know, Jackie," April says. "Those are expensive."

I'm about to suggest that her mom can make them before I remember she isn't speaking to us. Luckily, my brain moves faster than my mouth this time. That would open up a whole new can of worms that neither of us need.

"Maybe we could ask for one. Are we gonna have that baby shower we talked about?"

Something in her eyes grows strained and I know I shouldn't have brought that up, either. It's a sore subject, one that she tends to avoid. But she's far along now; if we wait much longer, it'll be too late.

"I don't know," she says, remiss.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yeah," she answers. "I just don't like the idea of asking people for things - people who we haven't seen in ages - and expecting so much."

"I think that's how baby showers work. People like to give baby gifts; it's fun."

"It feels weird," she says. "It feels… I don't know, greedy. And baby showers cost money to throw." She blinks meaningfully. "We don't… we'd have to pay for a venue, cake, decorations. We can't swing all that."

"I could make a cake," I say. "We could do it together; it'd be fun. And we could have it here at the house, no decorations needed."

"How?" she says, growing more tense. "Where would people sit? Me and you can barely fit in here. I have no idea how the twins will. And you expect to have a party here?" Tears slip from her eyes as her face grows blotchy. "Sorry," she sniffs, rubbing her nose. "I just… I don't know."

"Okay, we won't worry about it," I say, acting on the instinct to comfort her. It's become the most natural thing in the world. "We won't have one. Okay?"

"No, but if you want one…"

"You're right, though. It's too much."

"I don't wanna make you sad," she says. "I know I'm always the downer. But I'm just so worried, all the time."

"I know," I whisper against her forehead. I pull her closer, belly between us - the ever-constant reminder. "But it'll be okay. I promise."

"You still love me?"

"I love you forever and ever, amen," I say, smirking as I quote one of her favorite Randy Travis songs.

"Forever and ever, amen," she sings back. Her voice is a peep, but it's there. And that's all I need. "Do you have to go drive?" she asks, arms wrapped around me like vines.

I glance at the clock. According to the time, I should be on the road already. But this time in bed is too good to pass up. "Nah," I say, and squeeze her. "I get to stay here a little while longer with you."

…

A few days later, during our break at the construction site, the sun beats down on all us guys. I keep my hard hat on to shield my eyes, but it doesn't do much good. I'm in the middle of chewing a bite of peanut-butter-and-jelly that April made this morning when Ben Warren comes up to me with something big under his arm.

"I want to give this to you," he says, plopping down beside me. Then, he looks around at a few of the others - Owen, Mark, and Derek. "You guys wanna go get your stuff?"

They all get up and I look to Ben with confusion. I still can't tell what it is that he's got. "What is this?" I ask.

Then, he unfolds it. It's a double stroller. I hadn't been able to tell because it was tucked into itself, but now I can see it clearly. "For the babies," he says, patting it. "My cousin's wife had twins. They're big now, about 8. I asked if they were getting any use out of this thing; it was just collecting dust in their basement. They were all for the idea of you guys taking it." He wheels it a bit closer to me. "It's all yours, man."

"Thank you," I say, and my eyes heat up. Am I about to cry in front of these guys? I have no idea, but I don't try and stop it. "Really, thank you. This helps. You don't even know how much this helps us."

"Thought so," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "You need anything, you just ask. Alright?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I'm serious."

"Hey, we're not done here!" Mark calls, sauntering over from where they'd parked their trucks. He's hauling a giant Tupperware container that he plops at my feet. He yanks off the lid and inside I see a bunch of baby and toddler books - used, but not worse for wear. "These were Cadence's. Too big for 'em now. All she wants is Judy B. Jones, or… Junie Moody or whatever the hell. I don't know. But these were deemed 'not cool,' as of the other day, and I thought they'd be perfect for you. You want 'em?"

I bend forward and rifle through the books, feeling overwhelmingly grateful. I blink hard - both against the sun and my tears - as I look back up. "Yes," I say. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Don't mention it," he says. "They were gonna go to Goodwill. But I thought it was better to give them to you."

"And!" Derek pipes up. I notice he's carrying two armfuls of paper grocery bags that he sets on the ledge where I'm sitting. "All these."

I peek inside and see dozens and dozens of baby clothes, folded nice and neat. "This is a lot," I say. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Like they said, they weren't being used," Derek says. "Mer's been yelling at me to clean them out of the attic for about three years now. The girls'll grow out of them before you have a chance to blink, which is why I gave you so many. You're gonna need 'em."

I pick up a onesie on the top to see it's decorated with tiny rosebuds, with silver snaps at the collar. It's unbelievably tiny. "Thank you," I say, folding it carefully back up again.

"One last thing," Owen chimes in. In front of me, he sets down two giant boxes of diapers. "Can't offer any hand-me-downs, but I do have these. I heard they come in handy."

I let out a laugh and wipe my misty eyes. "Yeah, definitely," I say, then pull the boxes closer.

"Double babies, double the shit, unfortunately," Mark says, then shrugs. "You get used to it. There's a desensitization factor."

"Maybe you should come over for diaper-duty then," I say, chuckling.

"Nah," he says. "I'll pass." He pats me on the back. "Avery, you're gonna be great."

"Seriously, great," Derek pipes up. "Why don't you take this stuff home now? We can close up shop around here. Early day."

"Really?" I ask, already thinking of how happy April will be not only to have me home early, but to see all the stuff we got today. She's going to be over the moon, and I'm excited to take a bit of weight off her shoulders.

"Really."

"Thanks, guys," I say, as they help me carry all the stuff to my car. "April's gonna flip. Thank you so much. I owe you guys big."

"You don't owe us shit," Ben says. "Serious. You're our brother."

"Thanks," I say, probably for the millionth time, then get in the car. As they walk away, I spend a moment just sitting there in the air conditioning, soaking all this in. I'm lucky to have people in my circle who help me, even if they aren't my biological family.

On the way home, my cell phone rings. Expecting April, I pick up instantly with my eyes still on the road. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," a male voice says. Definitely not April. "Jackson?"

I think for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. "Julian?" April's brother. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me," he says.

"Hey, man," I say. "What's going on? Everything okay?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by 'okay,'" he says. "I'm fine. My sister is fine, at least physically. But she's not fine emotionally, seeing as she just called me crying."

I perk up, concerned. "Why? What's wrong?"

"How about you tell me? You tell me why my sister, who is almost eight months pregnant, is on her feet all day. Still. At that restaurant and cleaning rich people's houses. Breathing in all those chemicals. That can't be good for the babies."

"Jules-"

"And tell me why she's calling and asking me for a loan. Why she sounded so desperate. You know I can't help her!"

I hate how he talks like April is going through this alone. I was never that tight with Julian, but he makes it sound like I don't exist. He's always tried to keep April extremely close, and if that means tearing her away from me, he'll do it. In his eyes, she's still his baby sister. Baby Bop, that's what he called her. I have no idea why.

"You don't need to worry. She's a little scared right now, but we're gonna be fine. I keep telling her that."

"Well, clearly she doesn't believe you, if she's calling me."

His tone makes me grit my teeth and clench the steering wheel a little tighter. Then, I get frustrated at April for calling him, for including him in on our problems. She knows better than to think Julian can do anything to help. She said it herself the other day; he's living in their parents' basement. Does she think he's sitting on a mattress full of cash? I doubt he even has a job.

It hurts that April called her brother. It makes me feel like she doesn't think I can handle this, like I can't provide for her. And that's what I've been trying my hardest to do lately, prove that I can take care of our growing family. I'm the dad. This is what I'm supposed to do, and I can do it. I just need time to straighten things around, and we'll be okay. But it's obvious she doesn't believe me.

"It's none of your business, Julian," I say. "Really, it's not. And I'm sorry she got you involved, but-"

"You don't have to apologize for my sister," he counters. "It is my business. It's April, and those are my nieces. If you guys aren't doing okay, then something needs to change."

"Yeah, thanks for that," I say.

"Don't snap at me," he says. "I wanna know why she feels like she has to call me. And you aren't even at home! What are you doing, out in the middle of the day?"

"I'm working, asshole!" I say. "I was at work, and later I'll be at work, too. While you're eating dinner made by your mom, I'll be out making money for my family. My family, which you had no part in creating, who you have no hold over. I'm glad April can confide in you; I'm happy you two are close, but frankly, you need to butt out. Our financial matters are not yours. She didn't need to call you."

"Jesus," he says. "I touched a nerve there."

"Yeah, a bit," I say. "Listen. We're under a lot of stress right now. April shouldn't be working, but she and I both know she needs to. We won't make rent if she doesn't. I'm doing everything I can."

Julian sighs, and is then quiet for a long time. "I get it," he says. "But I can't hear her in the state she was just in. She wouldn't stop crying. I didn't know what to say. I thought about asking Mom and Dad for-"

"No," I say sternly. "She doesn't want money from them."

But I'm not sure who doesn't want it - me, or her? I have too much pride to ask my mother for anything - with the way she walked out when I was 15. My father was a different story, he was there for everything, but passed away when I was a sophomore in college. April used to be close with her parents until we moved in together. Then, things changed. They won't talk to her, it's not the other way around like it is with me. I'm not exactly sure whether or not she'd accept help from them. If I were her, I wouldn't. But I'm not her.

"Yeah," Julian says. "I figured. They don't have much, anyway. I don't know what they'd say."

"You don't need to ask."

"I didn't plan on it. It just crossed my mind. If things are really as dire as she made them seem…"

"We'll be fine," I assure him. "One step at a time. April always thinks way too far ahead, she doesn't see that we've been surviving like this for a while."

"She looks to the future because the babies are coming soon. And she's gonna be the one to have them. You can't fault her for that."

"No, I'm not faulting her," I say, backtracking. "I just… I don't know. Things _have_ been hard. They have. But she and I, we're gonna make it."

He's quiet again, maybe letting my words ruminate. Maybe thinking nothing at all, I can't be sure. "Alright," he says. "Am I gonna get to meet Thing 1 and Thing 2 when they're born?"

"I'm sure April will want you at the hospital," I say. "Not in the room, but, yeah… the lobby. Of course, you're welcome to come."

"Cool," he says.

I drive the rest of the way home feeling tense, and the feeling doesn't go away once I walk in the door. There's loud clanging sounds coming from the kitchen and April doesn't greet me like she normally does on a good day.

"Mini?" I call, after I've brought everything in from the car. I set it all in the doorway. I'll take it to the nursery later to get it washed and organized.

She doesn't answer me, so I kick off my shoes and make my way inside. I find her standing in the kitchen, hair tied in a frizzy bun, making peanut butter sandwiches. She notices my eyes on her and says, "It's all we got."

"That's fine," I say, leaning on the doorframe. "It sounds good."

"No bananas," she says. "I know you like those. I can try and get some tomorrow."

"It's fine, baby," I say, taking a plate to bring it to the dining room table. After I sit, I tell her, "Your brother called."

"Yeah, I know," she says. "I just got off the phone with him."

I take a bite of my sandwich and look at her with a puzzled expression. "You did?"

She nods. "He told me what you guys talked about. How you said you're gonna take care of things? Or, how we will, I mean?" She gestures to the scant table. "Jackie, this does not look like we're taking care of things."

"I know," I say, sighing. "I'll find time to go grab some groceries between Uber trips tomorrow. But Min, did you have to call him? Does he really have to know all that shit about our personal life?"

"All that shit?" she says. She hasn't touched her sandwich. "I just want us to be okay. I want us to be able to provide for our babies, and I don't see anything wrong with asking for help. It's not admitting defeat to do that, honey. It's not."

I blink hard. "You don't think I can provide for us? For the girls?"

"We're not doing so great right now," she says weakly. "And we're doing all we can."

"I can do more," I say. I'm trying to be confident. I _need_ to be confident. For her; for them. "I can find work in the third shift."

"Then I'll never see you," April says, reaching to take my hand. "I already barely see you."

"I can provide for you," I say, trying to convince us both. "I can. And yes, this is a rough patch. A huge one. But I can get us through. I promise, it's gonna be okay." She closes her eyes for a long moment and tears leak out. "What?" I say.

"I just didn't think our lives would look like this," she says, and that wounds me. Deeper than I can say, it stings. "When we graduated, we weren't supposed to get stuck. And now, we are. We are so stuck. We don't have any money to advance our degrees, and neither of them mean anything with where we're at right now. I mean, you're pre-med and you drive for fucking Uber!"

April doesn't swear often, so when she does, it always knocks me off-balance. I knew things were bad, but I always try to stay positive. It doesn't seem like that approach is working for her anymore. I don't know what else to do to fix it, to prove to her that we're going to survive this and come out stronger. I don't know what else there is to say.

I pull her up from her chair and guide her to sit on my lap. With her legs hanging sideways off of mine, she leans against my chest and cries with everything she's got. I wrap one arm around her back and rest the other on her protruding belly, then kiss her shoulder over the fabric of her shirt. I keep quiet; I don't say a thing. Sometimes, I've learned it's best to let someone cry when they need to.

When her sobs have lessened to sniffles, I rest my cheek on her collarbone. She cradles my head and lays hers down on top of it, her breath still coming in shaky gusts. It takes her a long time to even out again, but she does eventually come to solid ground. "I love you," she tells me, very quietly. Lately, that's her most popular volume. She used to be so outspoken and exuberant - now, she's almost always reserved.

"I love _you_," I reply, lips moving against her shirt. I flatten one hand over the baby bump and kiss her arm. "You think that'll be enough?"

After a deep breath, she says, "It's gotta be."

…

At work a month later, it's raining outside. The kind of rainstorms that only August can produce - the heavy, humid kind that seem to start from nowhere and stop in the same way. Only this one, having begun at 7am, won't stop. At least the bones of the house are built, so there's a roof over our heads as we work on nailing the living room ceiling beams in place.

With the rain pouring down incessantly and the constant sound of hammers against wood, it's hard to hear much of anything here. So, it takes me a while to realize that Mark is calling my name - shouting it, actually, over the din of everything else.

"Avery!" he yells. "Phone!"

I turn around, steadying myself on the ladder. "Huh?" I say.

"Phone!" he says again. "Number isn't saved."

"If it's important, they'll leave a message," I say, turning back to the work.

I hammer in a few more nails until I hear my name again. "They won't stop," Mark says, walking over with my cell phone in his hand.

"Jesus," I say, wiping my forehead with the back of one hand. I swipe the button to answer, saying, "Yeah?"

"Jackson? Jackson Avery? Your wife is April Kepner?"

"Yeah…" I don't bother saying, legally, she's not my wife. It doesn't sound like the time for technicalities.

"Oh, thank god! Finally! Your wife is in labor! You need to get over here right now."

"What?" I say, stumbling down from the ladder. I'm surprised I don't fall and break my neck. "What? Where? Who is this?"

"Penny Richardson!" the woman squeals. "April cleans my house. She's here right now. And you, mister, need to get here, too!"

"Christ," I say, hands shaking. Mrs. Richardson gives me her address. "I'm coming. I'm coming. Tell her I'm coming. I'll be right there."

I hang up the phone and gather my things, at least what I can remember to gather. My brain is everywhere, all muddled, and I can't form a coherent thought. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. We have a bag packed at home that she needs. It has the babies' first outfits in it; the blankets, the camera. Extra clothes for April, and shoes. But there's no time to go get it - our house is out of the way in relation to the Richardsons'. I need to get there, then we need to get to the hospital. I'll call Julian and tell him to pick up the bag before he comes our way.

I drive faster than I've ever driven in my life, and I have no idea how I don't get pulled over. It's the middle of the day, you'd think cops would be out, but I come across a stroke of luck. I peel into the Richardsons' driveway and throw open the car door, tripping over my own feet to get to the front entryway.

"I'm here!" I shout, bursting inside.

"Jackie," April says, sounding breathless. She hobbles from a side room with an older woman at her side who I assume can only be Mrs. Richardson. "Oh, god. Baby. There you are."

Then, interrupting the small beat of silence between us, there comes a splashing sound. Then dripping. April, with wide eyes, lowers her chin to look at the floor, and then looks back up with her mouth agape.

"Oh, shit!" she yelps, then pulls her arm from Mrs. Richardson's. "I'll clean that up before I go. I was just using a rag in-"

"Dear, no!" Mrs. Richardson warbles. "You need to go!"

"April, we do need to go," I say, seconding the notion.

"I'll get the mess," Mrs. Richardson insists. "You go on and have those babies. And please, dear, call me when they arrive!"

"She can clean it up," I tell April, taking her elbow to lead her out the door. "We gotta go, babes. We gotta go. Clemmie and Skye, they ain't waitin'."

"Okay," she breathes. "Right. Yeah."

I get her in the car and buckle her in, and as I do she does a big Lamaze breath right on my cheek. "Good job, babe," I say, hearing the seatbelt click. "I'll get us there fast."

With her hands spread out on her belly, April is surprisingly quiet the entire ride to the hospital. That changes when I pull in the visitor's parking lot, though. "No!" she shrieks. "Emergency entrance!"

"Right. Shit," I say, careening into the next lot.

I help April out of the car and she waddles inside, stopping as we're about midway to the door. "My shoe!" she cries, looking back over her shoulder.

"It's fine," I say. "Just leave it. We gotta go!"

The automatic doors open and we make our way through them. I lead April to the front desk and say, "We're here to have our babies."

"Alright," the receptionist says, "Please take a seat."

"A seat!" April yells. "No way! I'm sorry, but these two are coming right now. Right now, I think!"

"Oh, geez," the receptionist says, then calls for a wheelchair.

April holds one hand between her legs. Doing what, I have no idea. "Jackson, I can't sit," she mutters to me, too embarrassed to tell the nurse heading towards us with a chair.

For a moment, I forget the word. What the hell are those beds on wheels called? "Bed!" I shout. "Can we get a… journey, gurney! Can we get a gurney, please?! My wife needs a gurney!"

Eventually, they load April onto a gurney and I clutch her hand as we race down the hall. There's sweat pouring off her body - so strongly, I can see the beads of perspiration on her forehead, dripping down her temples into her hair. "God, Jackson!" she shouts, tossing her head back and panting as they set up the bed inside a room.

"Your doctor is on her way," a nurse says. "Dr. Fields will be here in no time. She's on the phone right now; she's on the highway."

April does more Lamaze breathing, making 'hee-hee-hoo-hoo' sounds beside me. If we were in any other situation, I might laugh. But I don't laugh. Not now. Right now, I'm working too hard on keeping April in her shirt - she's trying to rip it off because she's so hot. I have no idea where her pants went, but they're gone and her lower half is covered by a hospital gown.

"Fields is at the stoplight!" a nurse informs us.

April lets out a long, loud sob. She covers her eyes with one hand and grips my fingers with the other, body shaking as she cries. "It hurts," she moans, gulping for air. "I want these babies out. Now!"

Our first daughter comes just as Dr. Fields blows open the door and shoves her hands inside rubber gloves that a nurse had open and waiting for her. The doctor doesn't even have to help; the nurse does it, and I cut the cord. I hold my baby for only a second; but April tells me who she is.

"Clemmie," she breathes, eyes open to slits as she watches me pass her to a different nurse, one who will wrap her up until Skye is born. April still has more work to do.

"Come on, Skye baby," I say, peering between April's knees.

"Jackson! Don't look," she instructs me.

"But I can see her," I say, truly amazed. "I see her little head. She's got all this curly hair."

"You might be looking at- oh my _god_!"

With that final scream, Skye comes into the world wailing. Just like their mama, both twins are crying as they're placed in April's arms. Both in pink, both perfect, just like her.

And soon, I'm crying alongside them. Looking at April's worn, flushed face, everything is right here in front of me. All the answers to every question I've ever asked, they're right here.

So, I cry. And April cries. And the girls cry, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**APRIL**

When the twins were still inside me, I planned so many things for them. And when those plans were hypothetical, things were easy. I wanted to use cloth diapers, and so far we have been - but not without strange looks from a few choice nurses. I don't think cloth diapers are the most popular (or easiest) choice. But in the long run, they'll save us money. Of course, we'll use the diapers that Jackson's friend gifted us, but I'm not sure when. Maybe at night, or whenever we're apart.

Something else I was dead-set on doing was breastfeeding. I checked out as many books as I had time for about the dos and don'ts of parenting. Many authors were vehement on what not to do, so much so that it was overwhelming. But one thing I took away from the essays upon essays I read was that breastmilk is imperative to infants' growth. And since I knew that my twins held the risk of being born premature, I decided it was something I needed to give them.

But the books made breastfeeding seem a lot easier than it's turned out to be.

I thought it would be natural for all three of us. I would hold them to my chest - my giant chest, as of late - and they would understand what to do. But that wasn't the case at all. Given that they were hours old and couldn't see very well, there was a lot of bumping around. And trying to maneuver two little heads instead of one while at the same time getting my boobs in the right place was nearly impossible, even with Jackson's help.

Eventually, a lactation consultant came to help. Before today, I had no idea that profession even existed. But she showed me a pillow meant specifically for nursing twins, where they could rest under my arms like little footballs and latch much easier. It still took a good chunk of time for them to get acclimated, but once they got the hang of it, they went crazy.

That's where we're at now, the two of them latched to my chest as Jackson sits on the couch against the wall, and I can't tear my eyes away from my babies. Clementine has a beauty mark on her earlobe that looks like a little brown earring, and with the risk of disturbing her, I reach to touch it. Her skin is impossibly smooth. I really can't believe I made her.

And Skye. Right now, her hair is spiked and tousled, but so, so soft. She has a birthmark on her clavicle that I've been studying - Jackson claims it looks like the state of Michigan, but I don't see it. Whatever it is, though, it's beautiful. They're both so beautiful.

But as I stare at my daughters and marvel over the fact that Jackson and I somehow created them, fear creeps in. Right now, they're tiny and perfect; completely helpless. They depend on us for absolutely everything, and as their parents, it's our responsibility to provide good lives for them. But with how things have been going lately, I don't know how possible that is.

Babies need a lot of things. Obviously, I know that and was aware of it during my pregnancy. But now that they're in my arms, musing over all that we _don't_ have is more daunting than ever.

When I was a kid, we weren't well-off by any means, but we weren't poor. Julian and I grew up on a farm in Ohio and worked for everything we had. We never wanted for anything; I don't know if my mom and dad worried about money like Jackson and I do. If they did, I never knew about it. I want that same lifestyle for my twins - I don't ever want them to feel like they have to shoulder our issues.

My parents were strict, but we never doubted how much they loved us. As long as we stuck by the rules, went to church, and behaved in a way that Mom deemed appropriate, things were good. I had a happy childhood. There was a lot I couldn't do and a lot of boundaries, but I was so used to it that I didn't mind.

When my parents disowned me, I was knocked off my foundation. I couldn't understand how they could do something like that to their only daughter. Sure, Jackson and I aren't married, but someday we will be. We've always planned on it, we just don't have the money yet. They know all about our struggles, which tempts me to ask them for financial assistance. Jackson always says that if they wanted to help, they would, and we shouldn't have to ask in the first place. But he doesn't know them like I do. In order for them to give us what we need, what would keep us from drowning, they'd need a formal apology and a genuine request. It won't come out of thin air.

I've contemplated asking them behind Jackson's back for months. If I sat down and gave it a few days' worth of thought, I could think of something to say that would break down their walls. But if he ever found out, he'd be hurt beyond belief. It'd be more than his pride that was bruised, his trust for me would splinter. And that's the last thing I want.

As I think about him and toss our worries around in my mind, Jackson opens his eyes from where he'd nodded off on the couch. The first thing he does is smile at me, and that makes warmth spread throughout my chest and inch up to the apples of my cheeks.

"Hey, honey," I whisper, quietly so the twins will keep eating. They're doing so well.

"They finally got it," he says. He had just fallen asleep when the lactation consultant came in earlier.

"Yeah," I say, glancing down at their little heads. "Still going, too. They're really hungry."

"Are you?" he asks.

"I'm okay," I say with a soft smile.

"Nursing twins burns 1,000 calories a day," he tells me. "I read that. You should eat something."

He stands up and stretches - his t-shirt rides up to expose his belly and I can't help but think how badly needs new clothes. He still wears shirts from years ago, and they're either faded, holey, or shrunken. Every time I see him in something ill-fitting, I feel a twinge in my stomach. We shouldn't have to live like this. Something has to change.

"I'll go get you something," he says, bending at the waist to kiss my forehead. "Any requests?"

I rest back on the pillow and look up at him. "Mmm…" I hum. "Dark chocolate."

"Yes, mama," he says, then gives me another kiss. "Be back soon."

While he's gone, Skye pulls away from my breast and I try to figure out how to burp her as Clementine keeps eating. It's not easy doing it one-handed with both boobs out, but I end up getting some gas out of her. She whimpers against my shoulder, making small baby sounds that I still have to get used to, and Clementine finishes just as Jackson walks back in.

"Just in time," I say. "Can you take Clemmie and burp her?"

"Sure," he says, setting the chocolate down.

"Oh, and pull up my gown. Please."

He laughs softly, eyeing me. "Not sure if I should," he says.

"Jackie," I say, smirking. "They're not alluring to anybody but these two right now. Please, god, make me decent."

"Alright," he says, still smiling as he fixes me. Then, he takes Clementine and sits on the edge of the bed, handling her like she's made of glass. I know the feeling. They're so small, it feels like any errant movement might break them. "How?" he asks after a few moments.

"Pat her back," I say. "Over your shoulder. You might need a cloth."

"Alright…" he says unsurely. He lifts the baby and pats her, fingers barely ghosting over her spine.

"Harder than that," I say, kissing Skye's arm. "The gas bubbles need to come out."

"She's so little, though," he says, looking worried. "Does it hurt her?" I shake my head no, and he tries again. That time, an air pocket escapes the baby and she rests more relaxedly against him.

"There, see?" I say, and he relaxes too.

"It's gonna take a while to get used to that," he says. "They're so fricken tiny."

"I know," I say, stroking Skye's back. I scratch my ear with my free hand and debate bringing up what I was thinking about just moments ago. To put off the conversation a little longer, I rip open the dark chocolate and bite off a square, chewing slowly after. When I realize there's no avoiding it, I take a deep breath and say, "I was thinking about something."

He raises his eyebrows and says, "Yeah?"

I nod slowly, taking another bite. "Yeah…" I inhale deeply. "I think… I think it might be smart to ask my parents for money."

There's a beat of silence before he sighs. When I look up, he's staring into space with his jaw set firmly, clenching and unclenching it. I hate the silence before a fight - most of the time, it's worse than the actual thing. I want to get this conversation over with.

"What?" I prompt.

"Just…" he says, the tension leaving his shoulders as he cradles Clemmie. "Do you have to bring that up right now?"

"Yes," I answer, trying to keep calm. In no way do I want to start a trend of fighting in front of the babies. "I do, because it's all I think about. Now that they're here, all that's going through my mind is how much we don't have. And how much they need. And how much it all costs." I meet his eyes meaningfully. "We need help, Jackson."

He blinks slowly, just breathing for a few minutes instead of responding. This time, I let him have the silence. Then, finally, he says, "I know. I get it. But at the same time… I wanna savor this time with you guys. Both of them, and you. To just have a few days where we don't think about that stuff."

I get where he's coming from. But just because we put our real life problems on pause doesn't mean they'll go away. When we re-enter reality, they'll be right there waiting, more demanding than ever. So, I don't say anything. I don't agree, but I don't disagree, either. I don't know where we'll go from here, and I don't know if I _should_ know.

Interrupting my whirling thoughts, Jackson cuts in. "I'll get another job," he says firmly.

"Well, no," I say, grasping for straws. "Let's think about this. I won't be able to work for the next couple months because they're too little. And obviously, we can't afford daycare… but-"

"So it makes the most sense."

"Let me finish, please," I say, meeting his eyes. "I'm saying that once the first few months pass… some of my clients might let me take them with me. They can sleep, or ride in a little carrier. You don't have to get a third job, Jackie, that's too much."

"It's not," he says. "You can't bring them with you to clean houses. You'll kill yourself, and you never know what they could get into… that's not safe. Please, Mini, let me do this. This is what I'm able to do. I can bring the money in." He pauses for a moment, then says, "I don't think there's another option, baby."

My eyebrows pull together and I find myself frowning, thinking of all the baby work I'll be doing on my own, stuck in the apartment all day. If he works three jobs, I'll never see him. That much is guaranteed. But he's right. There is no other option.

"Yeah," I say, conceding. I look at him with sad eyes, sigh, and say, "I'm scared."

He leans over and kisses my lips softly, just once. "I got us," he tells me. "I'm always gonna have us. How many times have I told you that?"

"A lot," I say, one corner of my lips pulling up.

"There's a smile," he says, touching my dimple. "My favorite smile. Gimme another one."

I smile again, this time bigger. He matches the expression and kisses me again. "I love you," he says. "Forever and ever."

"Amen," I finish, then look up and see my brother in the doorway. "Jules!" I say, whispering so as not to disturb Skye on my chest.

"Hey, Boppie," he says, coming in with a handful of balloons, and pulls out a shoe from under his arm. "I saw this outside… I could've sworn it was yours."

"It is," I say, laughing. "I lost it on the way in."

"A real-life Cinderella," he says, kissing my cheek. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I say, watching him as he looks over at Jackson.

"How's everything going?" Julian asks him. "How's dad life?"

"Great," Jackson says, a bit stilted. I know what's on his mind; Julian interrupted a decently heavy moment between us. But I'm not about to cast my brother away - I haven't seen him in forever.

"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner," Julian says. "Mom and Dad are moving into their new house and…" His eyes dart quickly to me. "Never mind. I'm here now, and so are my nieces!"

"Mom and Dad moved?" I ask, not letting the subject slide. "What about the farm?"

He chews the inside of his cheek, eyes roaming between Jackson and me. He knows I won't let a non-answer slide. I'm too stubborn for that. So, he gives in. "They sold it," he says. "It was too much to take care of."

"Okay…" I say, frowning a bit. "So, where are they living now?"

Julian brightens. "It's pretty awesome, actually. They found a place on Nantucket. Can you believe that?"

"Nantucket?" Jackson repeats, as stunned as I am. "The island?"

"Yeah, off Massachusetts," he explains. "They're gonna open a general store, or something. They have this whole plan."

"And are you…" I begin, trying to figure out a way to word my question without offending him. "Are you going, too?"

"Yeah," he says. "I get the guesthouse all to myself. No more basement."

"Great," Jackson says stiffly, but Julian either doesn't hear or chooses not to acknowledge him.

"But right now, I'm still in Ohio helping the movers. Mom and Dad are giving orders from the middle of the freaking ocean, which is why I took so long. They're hellbent on having the cello shipped in this temperature-controlled…" He pauses, then takes a breath. "You know what? It doesn't matter."

"I wish you'd told me sooner," I say, blinking rapidly. I don't want to cry, but it feels like I might. My childhood home is gone. All the memories I made in that house, all the fundamental years, they've been sold to a different family. "I would've liked to know."

"You were stressed enough with these guys," he says, leaning over to peer into Skye's face. "These little cuties. Which one is this?"

"Skye," I say. "Skye Morgan. Jackson has Clementine Isabel."

"Pretty," Julian says.

"Do you want to hold her?" I ask.

If I'm not mistaken, I see Jackson go a bit rigid as Julian nods and reaches for Skye. A part of me warms seeing him so protective, so worried about his baby even though it's just my brother. I always knew Jackson would be a good father.

"There you go," I say, settling Skye against Julian's chest. "Skye-Skye, this is your uncle Jules." I smile at him as he looks down at the baby, and she opens her mouth in a wide yawn.

She wriggles a bit, then opens her eyes to slits. They're unfocused, sapphire newborn eyes, but something must make her realize she isn't in my arms anymore, and she starts to cry. Loud, staccato wails that crackle through the room, and Julian hurriedly hands her back. She doesn't quiet instantly, but it doesn't take long.

"Christ," Julian says, exhaling dramatically. "That's loud. How are you guys gonna handle that times two?"

Jackson and I exchange a look, then he speaks for both of us. "We're figuring it out," he says, strong and sure as ever. "Just like always."

…

When the twins are six months old, we've fallen into a steady routine. Nursing, playing, napping, nursing, playing, napping, again and again and again. At this point, I could do it with my eyes closed and on some days, it seems like I do. Having two babies is far from easy, but I love them both so much that sometimes, I look at them and feel like my heart might burst.

They go to bed at 7pm and wake up again at 10 to nurse, so they're usually asleep when Jackson walks in the door. He gets home at 8 or 9 from driving Uber, then goes back out again at 11 to work third shift at a nearby factory. He always sits with us for the nighttime feeding - that's where he catches up and loves on all three of us.

I miss him more than I can say. And my heart hurts because of it.

Tonight, when the door comes open, I'm half-asleep on the couch with the TV on. Typically, I try and stay awake for him. But most nights, it's hard to keep my eyes open after a long day of entertaining the twins. I like to get them out of the apartment as much as I can, and that means a lot of stroller walks to the park. In any weather. I can't handle being cooped up in this tiny place all day.

My eyes flutter open as I hear him kick off his shoes, and I smile sleepily in his direction. "Hey, honey," he says, walking over in his socks.

"Hi," I say, reaching my arms up for a hug. He bends in half and embraces me, then gives me a kiss on the forehead. "How're you?"

"Beat," he says.

"I made you a plate. It just needs to be warmed up."

"Thanks," he says, but lifts my feet and sits down with them on his lap instead of going to eat. "How was your guys' day?"

"Long," I say. "But good."

"What'd you do?"

"We went to the library. I think Skye might be coming down with something. Her nose was getting runny. So, be prepared for a family-wide cold soon," I say.

He laughs, shoulders bouncing once. "Great," he says. "Were they good today?"

"Of course," I say, then stretch my arms above my head on the throw pillow. "But we missed you."

"I know," he says, coming to lay his head down on my stomach. As I breathe, it rises and falls. I rest one hand on the side of it and trace his ear slowly, doing nothing but soaking in this time with him. Lately, it's all we ever get. "You know what I was thinking about today?" he asks.

"Hmm."

He picks his head up and looks at me with a glint in his eye. "How whenever we'd get high, we'd always end up having sex and acting like fuckin' idiots."

I smile as I cover my eyes with one hand. "Oh, god," I say. I start laughing, which makes him laugh, too. When we were in college, we both liked to smoke weed. It wasn't a habit, but it helped when we got stressed and needed to unwind. Now, there's no way we could afford something extra like that. So, we have to make do with the memories of the fun we used to have.

"I miss that," he says.

"I know," I say. "But now…"

"Well, yeah," he says. "The babies."

"And there's no way we could spend money on it," I point out.

"I know," he says, crawling directly on top of me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and he touches my nose with his before kissing my lips. "But still. Remember when you were convinced the CIA was gonna come arrest us?"

I grin. "As if they even make arrests."

"Right," he says, chuckling. "And how about when you pissed yourself because you were laughing so hard?"

"I did not!" I say, holding his head. "Only a tiny bit came out. It didn't count."

"It totally counted," he says, stealing another kiss. "God, we used to be so fun."

"We're still fun," I say.

"Not _that_ fun," he says. "You haven't done your marijuana voice in so long…"

I screw up my lips to stop my smile. "I _won't_ do the voice," I say.

"Do it," he says. I put one hand on his forehead to push him away, then try not to laugh. "Do the voice, baby…"

He knows I'll give in, and I don't disappoint. "Dis vee-oice?" I say, putting on an accent that I made up one night when we were high as kites. "I cee-an't dee-oo it when we're not smee-oking mary-wee-anna, Jee-ackson."

We both bust up laughing, amused at our stupid selves just like we used to be. It was so easy to smile and laugh back then, when we had nothing to worry about but late assignments and term papers. Our burdens, of the few we had, were light.

"I fucking love that voice," he says, still laughing. "Remember… how about the time you swore you could do a handstand outside our dorm?"

"Oh, shit…" I say, smirking.

He touches a spot on my jaw just to the side of my chin, where a hairline scar is still present. "Biffed it right on your face," he says.

"I honestly don't think I bled as much during childbirth as I did from that freaking cut," I say.

He kisses the scar softly, parting his lips to run his tongue over it. I let my eyes flutter closed as I ghost my fingers over the back of his head, then let out a long, relaxed breath. "I really did miss you today," I tell him, and hope he'll decode my words accordingly.

"Yeah?" he says. I nod. He moves his head up to kiss me slowly, opening his mouth to breathe into mine. "I've been missing you for a few months now."

"Yeah…" I say, tightening my legs around his waist to keep his body flush to mine. My skin heats up as I feel him grow, pressed right against my thigh, and he draws a line of kisses down my neck to the open skin on my chest, teasing apart the buttons of my nightshirt as he goes.

My breathing quickens as I anticipate what we're about to do. We haven't had sex in forever - I can't remember too well, but I'm sure it was before the babies were born. Knowing we've had such a long period of celibacy makes a blue stone of guilt appear low in my gut. We're not 'us' in the same way we used to be. The old version of us couldn't go two days without having sex, and now I can't even remember the last time I had him.

I try to stop thinking about that, though, and cherish the time we're getting now. But it doesn't last long. Because after my shirt has been opened all the way and he's kissing his way down to the waistband of my pants, the crying starts. First Clemmie's, then Skye's. I've become an expert on telling who's who.

I glance at the clock. They're right on schedule.

Jackson lets his head go heavy against my torso, forehead pressed right against the pocket of skin between the two sides of my ribcage. "Damn," he mutters.

"Yep," I say, gently pushing on his shoulders. "They're hungry."

When I stand, he follows me into the nursery. I've been told that as the twins get older, they'll transition into different feeding schedules and allow me to be more comfortable while nursing, but that hasn't happened yet. Either way, though, I've got the process down to a science. They're big enough now where they can maneuver themselves somewhat, and each has their own preferred position. Skye likes to be right against my heartbeat, and Clemmie tucked under an arm.

After the three of us get comfortable, Jackson sits on the ottoman across from the rocking chair. The rocking chair was one we found at Goodwill the week before they were born, and the ottoman was in the alley between our apartment building and the one next door. Beggars can't be choosers, but both are coming apart at the seams.

"Daddy was trying to get it on with Mommy, girls," Jackson says lightly, looking pointedly at the back of their downy heads. "You two are being pretty big cockblockers right now. It's a little rude."

"Very selfish," I joke. "And don't say 'get it on.'"

"Okay," he says. "Daddy was trying to make sweet, sweet love to Mommy-"

"I'm gonna kill you," I say, shaking my head. "I honestly am."

"Yeah," he says, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. "I'd like to see you try. What, with Thing 1 and Thing 2 attached to each boob?"

"Got me there," I say, then take a deep breath as I watch him. He has dark circles under his eyes, and keeps rubbing them. It's clear that he's exhausted. "Honey," I say, and he looks up. "You should take a nap before you have to leave again."

He sits up straighter, as if to prove he's awake. "I'm fine," he says, then caps a hand over my knee. "Honestly."

"I don't want you to hurt yourself at work because you're tired," I say.

"I won't," he says. "I promise. I wanna be here with you guys." He strokes the back of each twin's arm and stays quiet for a long moment, so long that I wonder what he's thinking. I don't ask, though. "I need this time."

"Okay," I say, resting my head against the threadbare pillow. I give him a soft, slow smile. "Then we want you to stay, too."

…

About five months later, when the twins are almost a year old, we're in the heat of summer without a working air conditioner. There's absolutely no wind outside and the city is insufferable, so me and the girls are spending the afternoon in the living room with the oscillating fan.

When they're having playtime, I like to talk on the phone, or get my college brochures out. It's not realistic, we're nowhere near stable enough for either of us to go back to school, but I've kept collecting them. As I look through the pictures of academics, I can step into another life for a second. Not one without the twins - I would never wish for that, ever - but one that's just a bit different, a bit easier.

"Mama," Skye says. "Mama?"

I look up to see a handful of blocks before her, some stacked. She's knocking the red and blue ones together, and judging by the smile on her face, she likes the clicking sound. "You making music, babes?" I ask, smiling. "It sounds great."

She squeals, hitting the blocks harder. Clementine, from the other side of me, takes notice of what her sister is doing and looks over with interest, wanting some for herself. That's how it always goes with them - one always wants what the other has, even if it's as inconsequential as a wrapper or an empty bottle.

Clemmie babbles, growing more frustrated as she watches Skye have fun without her. I watch her for a moment, amused, and wonder why she doesn't crawl over. But just as I'm musing over that, she lifts onto her feet using the couch to balance, and wobbles in place. This much isn't new - but judging by the look on her face, she's about to take her first steps.

"Oh god, oh geez," I say, fumbling for my phone. "Where is it? Where is it? Hold on baby, just hold on. Don't go yet!"

I finally find it under the couch, and I race to unlock it and FaceTime Jackson, who's driving Uber right now. The familiar ringtone chimes, then his face comes into grainy focus. "Babe?" he says, confused. "You good? Are the girls okay?"

"Clemmie is about to walk!" I say excitedly, then flip the camera around. "Look!" I get her into the phone's frame as she teeters, arms out to either side so she won't fall. "You can do it!" I tell her, smiling so wide it hurts. "Come here to Mama, Clemmie. Come on, baby!"

We lock eyes and with a determined expression that undoubtedly came from Jackson, she takes three firm steps before toppling into my lap.

"She just walked!" Jackson cheers, and I cradle the baby close and shower her in kisses. Then, Jackson addresses the passenger in his car - someone I didn't notice before now. "My daughter just took her first steps!" he says, his voice going high with excitement.

"We got a little walker!" I squeal, holding Clementine against my chest. She smiles, soaking up the affection, and I look back to the phone. "Jackie, we got a walker."

"I know it, baby," he says.

Then, without enough attention on her, Skye starts to whimper and whine before letting her body fall to one side in a baby-sized heap. It won't be long before she goes into full-on tantrum mode if I don't scoop her up. "Gotta go," I say hurriedly. "See you tonight."

I'm awake and waiting for Jackson when he gets home that night, still giddy from the milestone that Clementine passed earlier. He walks in the door and I meet him there, giving him a strong hug as soon as we lock eyes.

"Hey, Mini girl," he says, squeezing me tight. "Ohhhhhh, I missed you."

"You're home," I say, still holding onto him.

He lifts me up and spins me around - something about him is lighter tonight, too. I wonder if his positive mood is centered around Clemmie walking, or if it's something else. But right now, I don't ask. All I want to do is utilize the energy that we hardly ever have, and take him to bed tonight.

I kiss him, holding his cheeks in both hands, and his grip drops to my ass. He rocks my hips close and kicks off his shoes as we're still connected, then smiles against my mouth. "Wanna go to our room?" he asks, as if it's even a question at this point.

I nod, grinning, and he picks me up off the floor. When he lays me down on top of the comforter, he does so gently, and pulls my leggings off before covering my body with his, and it's so good to feel him, to have him like this. It's been ages.

"Your jeans are scratchy," I tell him, pulling his shirt over his head. "I want them off you."

"I'm trying to get you naked first," he says, pushing my camisole up to kiss my stomach slowly. "Oh, god. I love you, boo."

"I love you more," I say, lifting my hips as he takes my underwear off. I take care of my own shirt and unbutton his jeans, finally getting him into the same state that I'm in.

We've had sex a few times in the past year, but it's been rushed and half-assed. This time is nothing like that. I kiss every inch of his skin that I can reach, and he makes sure there's never a moment where we're not touching. When he pushes inside me, my arms are wrapped around his neck and our foreheads are pressed together as we lose ourselves in heady eye contact. I treasure every kiss he gives me and hold onto each orgasm, letting them ripple through my body in slow motion as he tells me without words how loved I am.

The comforter is on the floor once we're finished, and both our chests are heaving. When he pulls out, I don't let him go far before I entwine our legs together and gravitate towards his chest, folding myself against his warm, sticky body. He finger-combs my hair away from my face as I lazily kiss his throat; I can't remember the last time I was this blissed out.

"Mini, I have good news," he says, tracing the dip of my spine right above the dimples on my lower back.

"Hmm," I say, eyelids growing heavy. I want nothing more than to fall asleep with him, naked and sweaty, like we used to do all the time.

"I'm gonna take us on vacation," he says. That sentence wakes me up instantly. I lift my head to look into his eyes, and he must see how worried I am, because he keeps talking. "Nowhere far," he says. "Northern Michigan. The dunes. I really want us to see them, and I want this for the girls. We spend too much time cooped up in this apartment. It's beautiful up there, and it'll just be for a weekend. I got a little bonus at work."

My mind immediately centers on what else that bonus could be used for. Savings, groceries, bills, rent, clothes, a new bed frame, a play class for the girls to help them socialize. But I don't say any of that. I don't want to ruin the gift he's trying to give me, because he's clearly proud. And I do want to go on vacation. I just don't know how smart it is.

But I push all the real-life needs out of my mind for him. We'll figure those things out. Right now, Jackson wants to take his family on vacation, and I want nothing more than to go.

"That sounds amazing," I tell him, nestling my head back into the crook of his shoulder. "When do we leave?"

…

Skye took her first steps on a sand dune, refusing to be left behind by her sister, who walks like she's been doing it her whole life. And suddenly, we had two mobile babies. Two mobile babies who loved to eat sand more than anything else - I spent half the weekend digging it out of their mouths.

We spent a lot of time at the beach, finding Petoskey stones, making sand castles, and swimming. It was the twins' first time seeing Lake Michigan, and they each reacted very differently to the big body of water. Clementine wouldn't go in without being in Jackson's arms, but Skye would've swum away had we let her. But of course, I didn't let go of her once.

I tried to relax and let our money woes leave my mind. I tried to enjoy the sun, sand, and the other tourists, but even watching our babies have fun on vacation made me feel guilty. All I could think about were the bills waiting for us back home.

The two-and-a-half days flew by. When we pull into our parking spot behind the apartment back in Chicago, it feels like we never left. And not in a good way.

The babies are asleep, so we each take one and bring them upstairs. They're already in their pajamas because of the nighttime drive, so all we have to do is lay them down before Jackson goes to collect our luggage from the trunk.

As his footsteps come up the stairs, I go to flick the kitchen light on only to have it not work. I furrow my eyebrows, mess with the switch again, and get nothing. I grab a stool from the corner, then twist the lightbulb back and forth - it doesn't seem like there's anything wrong with it.

I get down and move to the dining room, trying the light there as well. Nothing happens. It doesn't come on. Our electricity is off.

"Jackson," I say, listening to my own voice tremble. With fear, anger, hopelessness - I'm feeling it all.

"Yeah, babe."

"Did you pay the electric bill?"

"Huh?"

I gave him the bill last week. Well, I didn't so much _give_ it to him as he said he would take care of it. I was sitting at the table with all of our expenses fanned out around me, and he said he would take care of them. I was overloaded and overwhelmed, so I was more than happy to let him shoulder the bills this time. Usually, they're my responsibility.

"The electricity," I say, swallowing hard to try and keep my composure. "Did you pay it?"

"I think so."

"Well, the lights won't turn on. So, it got shut off."

"What?" he says. "It wasn't due 'til August."

"Jackson," I say, growing fed-up. "It _is_ August."

"Shit," he says. "Shit. Well, don't worry. I'll take care of it tomorrow. We don't need the lights while we sleep, right?"

"But we need the fan, we need the chargers, the fridge, we need…" I massage my temples with one hand. "Yes, we actually do need electricity. And you thought it was already paid, which means you used that money for our trip." I open the banking app on my phone and turn it around so he can see. "We don't have enough to pay it now. Are you seeing that? Do you see how broke we are? So broke that our lights got shut off."

He sighs, letting his cheeks puff out. "Baby, I know. I'm sorry. I really fucked up this time, but I can fix it."

"No, you can't," I say, slamming my phone facedown on the table.

"What do you mean, I can't?" he asks, dumbfounded. "We always manage to scrape by somehow."

"I'm tired of fucking scraping by," I say, eyes heating up. "I'm tired of not having enough. Of being hungry when I go to sleep and when I wake up, too. I'm tired of… I'm tired of all of this, and I'm tired of you being too damn proud to ask for help. We can't go without help any longer, Jackson." He shakes his head, chewing his top lip with his bottom teeth after listening to what I've said. "What?" I say.

"If you didn't wanna take the vacation, you should've said something."

I close my eyes for a beat. "Of course I _wanted_ to take it," I say. "But should we have? No! Of course not."

"You didn't say that when I told you about it."

"How could I?" I say. "And ruin something else for you? I'm the only one between us with any sense of reality, so I always have to knock you down. You live in another world, one where money isn't an object."

"And you live in one where it's the _only_ object!" he says. "Do you know how sick I am of hearing you worry about how little have? It got old a long time ago."

"I'm sure it did!" I say. "But you know what else got old? Not having shit! Not having any new clothes for the kids, let alone myself. Let alone you! Living in this shitty apartment where we hardly have room to breathe, especially now that they're walking. We don't have money to baby-proof. We don't have money for anything, and I am tired of struggling." I look at him desperately. "Really, really tired of it."

He looks at me with eyes that are equally despondent. "So, what are we supposed to do?"

I don't bother telling him that I don't have the energy to be the one with the ideas anymore. I want to rely on someone else for that, for once. But that would open up a whole different can of worms that need to stay contained, at least for tonight.

"My parents," I say, knowing this won't be an easy conversation. "I've been talking to them off and on… and they know how much we're struggling. We need to ask them."

He screws up his eyebrows and looks at me like he has no clue who I am. "Wait, what?" he says. "You've been… what? When have you talked to them?"

"I'm here alone with the kids day after day, Jackson," I say. "I have the time. I'm not going to apologize for finding us a life raft. We won't make it without them."

"Yes, we will," he says firmly. "I won't reach out to them. We can do this on our own."

"No, we can't!" I say, tears streaming down my face. "Would you stop being so stubborn? Can't you see that this really isn't working? Things aren't going to magically fall into place. We need _help_."

"Not from them."

"You won't accept it from anyone!" I say, throwing my hands up. "Who's better to ask than family?"

"I don't consider them family," he says, closing off.

"Well, I do," I say. "And I know they've done wrong by us in the past, but that doesn't mean I'm done with them. I don't want that. We need them. And if we ask, they'll help."

"I will not ask them."

"I'll do the asking," I say.

"No, that's not what I'm saying," he says, eyes fiery. "If you lean on them, the people who hurt you so badly, I can't be with you. I just can't."

His words are a blow to the stomach. I take a step back, wondering how we got to this point while still recognizing the fact that we're here. If he doesn't want to join me in climbing out, that's his problem. I can't live like this anymore, like paupers, without doing anything to help our situation. I can't do that to myself or my daughters.

"Okay," I say staunchly. "Then… if that's how you want to look at things, I guess that's how it's gonna go."

"Yep."

"I'm not leaving the girls," I say challengingly.

"I'm not, either."

That's how we got to be where we are now. 13 years older, 13 years estranged, with two teenagers who have no idea they have a twin and another parent who loves them, somewhere out there in the great big world.


	4. Chapter 4

**APRIL**

I don't know if there's a place more beautiful than Nantucket in the spring and summer. Every winter when I inevitably start to regret living on this little island off Massachusetts, all I have to do is remember how amazing it is during the warm months. Then, all that doubt fades.

Every morning, the beach is the first thing I see when I wake up. It's right outside my window; it's basically our backyard and has been for the last thirteen years. I blink slowly and take in the bright blue May morning, inhaling to wake myself up. Before I can organize my thoughts, I hear soft footsteps on the carpet and then a slight weight on the king-sized mattress. Then, I hear my daughter's gentle voice saying, "Morning, mama."

I turn my head and smile sleepily at Skye, seeing that she's still in her pajamas as well. Judging by her bleary eyes, she just woke up, too. She lays down and nestles into my side the way she's been doing her whole life, and I give her a big squeeze. "Hey, KyKy," I say, kissing her forehead repeatedly. "Sleep good?"

"Yeah."

"Good," I say, lips against her forehead still. I close my eyes for a beat and run my fingers through her thick hair, the spirals wound tight like her father's used to get when his hair was long.

"Did you?" she asks.

"Always," I say.

"Well, not always," she replies, then props up on an elbow. "I know you sneak down to the couch when Alex is here 'cause he snores."

I smile at her conspiratorially. "Ya caught me," I say. "You're right. I sleep a lot better when he's gone. Plus, I like to starfish." I make a big display of stretching my arms and legs out in every direction across the mattress, which makes Skye giggle.

"Same," she says.

"You got that from me." She places her head back on my shoulder and I wind my arm around her again. "What's on the docket for today?" I ask.

"Musical practice after school," she says. "Blocking and stuff, I think. I also have that test in geometry."

"Did the flashcards help?"

"I don't know," she says. "I guess. Just don't kill me if I flunk it."

"You are not gonna flunk it," I tell her. "You studied hard. And there's always retakes, right?"

She sighs and shrugs, muttering, "I guess…"

"What else?" I say. "How about the Sadie Hawkins dance? Are you gonna ask anybody?"

"Oh, my god. Mom," she says, sitting up and criss-crossing her legs. She widens her eyes and shoots me a very 14-year-old smile - one that is not amused at all. "How do you even know about that?"

"I read the school newsletter now and then," I say. "Isn't it coming up this weekend?"

"Yeah, but I'm totally not going," she says, flopping down sideways.

"Oh, come on," I say, nudging her with my foot. "You don't wanna ask Timmy?"

"Mom," she groans, throwing her arms over her head. "It's _Tim_."

"Oh. Sorry, excuse me. Don't you wanna ask _Tim_?"

"No way," she says. "I'm literally not going."

"I literally think you should!" I say, a laughing tone in my voice as she gets up and out of my bed.

"I'm done talking about this!" she calls, one arm waving above her head as she heads back to her room to get ready for school. "Like, really, really done!"

I smile to myself and get up, too, fixing the duvet in the way I like it. I get ready in my own bathroom as Skye does in hers, and feel genuinely happy. I love hearing my daughter sing along to the radio, and I like seeing her with a little mascara and lip gloss on some mornings. She doesn't think I notice, and I don't dare call attention to it. I've learned that teenagers' opinions are very fickle things, and one errant comment from Mom can send it all spiraling.

I drop Skye off Nantucket High School, with only 400 students to call its own, then head to work. I'm the curator at the Whaling Museum on Broad Street and have been for the majority of the time we've lived here. After going back to school online and getting my master's like I always wanted to, I was finally able to put my art history degree to use in a way no one ever thought I could.

I open up the museum and turn the lights on, breathing in the familiar smell of the antiques. Business will pick up soon; the summer tourists should arrive anywhere between the last week of May and the first week of June. During late autumn and winter, traffic is slow but it gives us time to acquire new artifacts and to brush up on history - not like it changes, but I always like knowing as much as I can. With a job like this, I never stop learning.

I spend my morning in the records room, making sure everything is catalogued correctly. The only sound throughout the building is that of the nautical classical music I always play, but I've grown so used to it that I barely hear it anymore. It's just me and a lot of really old things.

Around lunchtime, I get up with plans to look through the event book and plan a few tours and maybe an exhibition for the middle of summer. But instead, I hear the front bell signaling that the door has been opened. So, I make my way to the entrance to greet whoever might be there; probably a local with news to share or for whom boredom has set in.

As I come through the twisting hallway, though, I see neither of those things. Instead, I see my boyfriend, Alex, standing there dressed for work. He fixes boats, which means there's always some sort of dirt or oil stain on his clothes. Today is no different.

"Hey," I say warmly, hugging him. My clothes are a bit nicer than his, but it's unlikely I'll see anyone else today. My blouse can get a little dusty and wrinkled. "What are you up to?"

"Wanted to see if you're free for lunch," he says, leaning on the front desk.

"Sure," I say, and as if on cue, my stomach growls. "Yeah, let's go. Where are you taking me?"

We end up at Millie's, where we sit on the patio and eat fish tacos. The wind is a little brisk off the water today and I know that when I go back to work, my hair will look nothing like it did this morning. But I don't mind. The food is great and the view is better, and I didn't see Alex all weekend. His work is picking up, just like mine will soon.

"Missed you at the cookout on Sunday," I say, taking a sip of the lemonade I ordered. "Mom was asking about you."

"Yeah," he says. "I've been working on this monster in the harbor. My guys don't get in for two weeks, so it's all me."

"How'd you manage to get away today?" I ask.

He shrugs and smirks at me. "I snuck out," he says. "For you. I missed this face."

I tip my head to the side and grin, laughing softly as I take a bite of a taco. "My mom was so disappointed when you didn't show. I think she likes hanging out with you more than she likes hanging out with me."

"Maybe me and her should run away together," he jokes. "Leave you and Joe in the dust."

"Wow…" I say lightly. "I see how it is."

"Uh-huh," he says.

"You should come over tonight," I tell him. "Julian's making salmon at my place. Your girlfriend, Karen, will be there, too."

He snorts. "Wish I could," he says. "But I gotta get some serious work done. I'm sorry, babe."

I shake my head to hide the disappointment. Lately, most of my invitations get turned down and I'm tired of feeling like a pining teenager. "It's fine," I say. "But the door's open if you get done early."

"I'll try," he says, but I know he won't show. I try to convince myself that it's okay, that he needs to work and make money, too. But it's a hard pill to swallow. Frequently, I find myself questioning why we're together if we barely see each other like a normal, adult couple would. Instead, he usually slips in the house after Skye has gone to bed and we have quiet sex in the middle of the night. That's not a relationship. That's a hookup, and I'm way too old for those.

But I haven't been brave enough to unearth that conversation yet.

"KyKy's birthday is coming up," I say. "15." I let out a long sigh, forcing myself to think of Skye and only Skye for the approaching birthday. "She wants to go sailing. Do you think you could make that happen? I told her I'd ask you."

He chews his lip and avoids my eyes. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe. Is she okay to go out, though?"

"It's not like she'd be the only one manning the sails," I say, trying to make light of it. More often than not, he treats Skye with kid gloves. We've fought over the fact that he thinks I treat her like a best friend instead of a child and I think he treats her like a toddler. We've yet to see eye-to-eye on that issue. "She'd have us there to help."

"Do you know how to sail?"

"I've lived here for thirteen years, honey," I say. "I know my way around a boat." I narrow my eyes and smile, attempting to word the next question as more quippy than defensive. "Why, you don't think it's a good idea?"

"Not a great one, no," he says.

Then, I grow defiant. "Well, it's what she asked for," I say tersely. "And she was really hoping you could make it happen."

He sighs, knowing if we push things further we're going to fight. I know that, too. "I'll see," he says, but we both know he won't, and I'll have to tell Skye to think of something else.

"Thanks," I say, standing up. "I should get back to the museum. Come to the house later, if you can make time."

"Like I said, I'll try," he says.

"Great," I say, no affect. "Thanks for lunch."

…

That night, Julian is standing over the stove watching potatoes boil. They're to act as a side dish for his famous salmon, which has just come back into season. So, of course, we have to have it. But I'm not complaining. Even though having fish twice in one day is a little much, no one makes salmon like Julian does.

I'm sitting at the breakfast bar, across from where he's working, head in my open palms. There's music playing, and neither of us talk. He keeps looking at me and I can tell he thinks I don't notice, probably wondering what's on my mind. I don't offer, though. My family loves Alex, and they tend to take his side when I bring up a disagreement between us. It gets old fast, so I try to keep the issues in our relationship to myself.

Then, we hear voices outside the front door just before it comes open. "April Shay," my mother says, which makes me instantly sigh. To her, I'm never just 'April.' For some reason, she's always used both my first and middle names to address me. No matter the occasion.

"Yes, mom."

"If your mail keeps coming to my house, you might as well just move in," she says, setting a pile roughly down in front of me.

"I'll start packing," I say, then see Skye come out from behind her grandmother. "Hi, babes," I say, then bring her close and kiss her. "How was rehearsal?"

"Okay," she says, tossing her backpack onto a dining room chair. "Grandma picked me up. My bike is in her trunk."

"Thanks, mom," I say. She makes a small sound to acknowledge I've spoken. "Where's Daddy?" I ask.

"Faking sick," she says, leafing through my mail as if that's something people do. "There's some sports game on. So, he 'has the flu' and won't come eat dinner with his family. God forbid he socialize."

"That sounds like Daddy," I say.

"What game?" Skye asks, but gets ignored as my mother pulls something interesting out of the mail stack.

"What's this?" she says, holding the envelope with both hands. "It's addressed to you from the Art Institute of Chicago." I swear, she makes a move to open it herself before I reach to take it from her.

"Mom," I say, shaking my head a bit. "It's my mail. I can open it."

"Well, then get to it," she says. "It looks official."

Resisting the urge to shoot her a look, I carefully rip the envelope at the seam. I pull out a three-fold letter and read it silently, sinking further and further into shock over what it entails. Such emotion must show on my face, because my mother can't contain herself any longer.

"Well?" she presses.

I blink hard and go back, making sure what I've read is the truth. It is. "They offered me a job," I say, in disbelief. But plain as day, there it is. The Art Institute of Chicago is offering me the curator position without so much as a resume. They became aware of my credentials from an exhibition we put on at the Whaling Museum last summer, when a recruiter came to check us out. I never knew. And now, they want me - at a starting salary of $50,000 higher than what I make right now.

"What?" Julian says, closing the oven he'd opened to check on the fish. "Who?"

I robotically hand the letter to my mother. "The Art Institute," I say, meeting his eyes gravely. "In Chicago."

"Wait, what?" Skye says, peering over her grandmother's shoulder to read the letter. "What does that mean?"

"I have no idea," I say, leaning against the counter for support.

"You said Chicago?" Julian pipes up.

"Yes," Mom says, then sets the letter down. My brother picks it up instantly. "And it is unreasonable. Tempting you with money as if you aren't doing fine where you are right now." She's miffed, that much is clear. Her nose is in the air and there's a deep crease between her eyebrows. "Clearly, they're insane."

"Are they, though?" Julian says, still reading. "This seems like a great position."

"Mama," Skye says, and I look at her. She's worried. Her big, brown eyes are glassy and her chin is trembling. "What's happening?"

"Honestly, Ky, I don't know," I say.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen," Mom says, ripping the letter away from Julian. "A big fat load of nothing. Just because they're from the city, they think their museums are better than ours? What history do they have? Compared to ours? They wouldn't know art history if it slapped them in the face."

"Well, mom…" I trail off.

"No class," she says. "None! Sending you an unsolicited letter. You should write them back and tell them how rude that was."

"It isn't rude," I say. "It's incredibly generous."

"Generous!" she guffaws. "You and I must have a very different view on generosity."

I tip my head and widen my eyes, agreeing silently - but not in the way she thinks.

"Let's eat," Julian says. "I'm sure everyone's hungry. This can wait. But the salmon can't." Attempting to lighten the mood, he smiles widely. "KyKy, can you set the table?"

Jolted out of her head much in the way I'm lost in mine, Skye snaps to attention, saying, "Sure," before moving towards the island and grabbing two handfuls of silverware.

For now, we'll move on with business as usual. But I think we all know it won't stay this way for long.

…

Mom eats dinner with us, picking at her plate like usual. What she doesn't eat, Julian does. We've always called him the family's personal vacuum when it comes to dinnertime. I can't find much of an appetite, but I push the food around to make it look like I finished more than I did. I don't want my brother to think his food was bad, because it wasn't. My mind is just too clogged to enjoy it.

Before my mother leaves, she and Skye clean up the table, and my brother and I wash the dishes. We have a dishwasher, but my mom instilled in us that hand-washing them is much more sanitary, so we've never been able to break that habit.

"Where was Alex tonight?" Julian asks, scrubbing a plate before handing it over for me to rinse.

"Busy in the harbor," I say, running the plate beneath water. "I invited him. He said he might be able to stop by later."

"When's later?"

"I don't know, Jules," I sigh. He likes Alex a lot, too. Not as much as my mom, but they get along. "And I don't know if we're gonna be able to make sailing happen for Skye's birthday."

"Why?" Julian retorts.

"Alex doesn't think it's a good idea."

"What the hell?" he says. "Then we don't need him. Ky really wants to go. She's had it in her mind for months."

"Yeah, I know," I say, feeling utterly defeated in every sense of the word. "I don't know. Maybe we'll still be able to figure it out. I just don't know right now."

I feel my brother turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes on the faucet without looking back. "What are you gonna do about Chicago?" he asks.

I close my eyes for a long moment, knowing the question had been simmering beneath the surface of our Alex conversation and the one about Skye's birthday. "I don't know," I say.

"Mom?" Skye says. I look over my shoulder to see my daughter standing there, looking a bit harried.

"Yeah, baby," I say. I feel just as tired as she looks.

"I feel like going to bed," she says.

I raise my eyebrows. It's barely 8pm. She hasn't gone to bed this early since elementary school. "Oh… okay," I say. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," she says, then diverts her eyes with a sigh. "But can you come up with me?"

"Sure," I say, then turn to Julian. "Can you finish up here?" I ask him. When he agrees, I wrap an arm around my daughter and walk with her up the stairs to her bedroom.

I sit on her bed as she goes through her routine in the bathroom, and eventually she comes out wearing sleep shorts and an old t-shirt of mine. Fittingly, the words 'Lane Tech' are printed across the chest, which is where her father and I were going to school when we met. She sits down next to me and leans her head on my shoulder, not saying anything. I press my lips to her crown and pull out an old nickname, one I coined when she was a toddler because she was so much tinier than everyone else her age. "Little bird…" I whisper, closing my eyes. "It's gonna be okay."

"I don't wanna move, mom," she murmurs, barely audible.

"I know," I say, then adjust so we're both lying down. She rests her head in the crook of my neck, one ear over my heartbeat like she used to do as an infant. "But we don't know anything for sure yet."

"What is there to know?"

I take a deep breath and consider all that she's unaware of. She has no idea. And truly, I don't either. "I'm not sure," I answer honestly. "I gotta talk it over with your uncle."

"What about Alex?" she asks. "What about him, if we move?"

"Honey, I don't know," I say.

"And Grandma and Grandpa? And my school. Nantucket is really far away from Chicago." Her voice gets pitchy and a little waterlogged, just like mine does when I'm about to cry. "I don't wanna leave."

"I know, babes," I say, unable to comfort her with much more. "But we gotta think about the future. This job they're offering me pays a lot more than the one I have now. And I'm gonna need all the help I can get to send you to college in a few years."

She nods shakily, sniffling. "I know," she says.

"I'm not saying I've made a decision," I say. "But just know that as I do, I'm always going to consider you. There's never been a time when you haven't come first. You know that."

"Yeah."

"And with whatever happens, we'll figure it out. I promise."

"Okay."

"Okay," I say, then kiss her hairline. "You should try and sleep. School tomorrow."

She doesn't respond, but she turns towards me and snuggles closer, letting one arm fall limply over my stomach. As I hold her, this teenager who's nearly as tall as I am, I can't believe how much she's grown. I can't believe how close she is to becoming an adult. She'll be 15 years old in less than a month, though it feels like only yesterday when we were on the beach as she turned 5.

For this birthday, we might not be on a beach at all. Or anywhere near the ocean, for that matter.

I lie with my daughter until she's gone completely slack with sleep, then slip out of her bed. I pull the covers up to her chin, give her a gentle kiss, and turn her bedside lamp off. I shut the door all the way, just how she likes it, then head back downstairs to Julian, who's sitting on the couch with his feet up on the ottoman.

"She's asleep," I say, plopping down to rest against the opposite arm. "She hasn't wanted me to lay with her like that in forever."

"Nervous about the whole thing," he says, turning the TV down.

"Definitely. So am I," I admit, then look at him with my eyebrows up. "I have no idea what I'm gonna do. How can I turn this job down?"

"You can't," he answers simply.

I inhale and exhale loudly, taking my time in doing so. "I know," I say, cheeks puffing out. "Mom is gonna freak."

"Mom will get over it," he says. "She'll find something else to freak out about next week. Don't worry."

I force a weak chuckle. "True," I say, then meet his eyes heavily. "But…"

"What?"

I shake my head, finding it extremely hard to say aloud. "You already know what."

"Clementine," Julian says, laying her name out flat like that, like it's so easy. I can barely pass the fruit in the grocery store without tearing up or hating myself, no less say her name like it's any other word in the English language.

"Yes," I say softly. "And him." I chew the inside of my cheek, worrying the same spot to try and force answers to come. "What if they're still there, in the city?"

"Do you think they would be?"

"I don't know," I say. "I have no clue where they are, or what he's doing. I've never contacted him and he's never contacted me."

"Yeah," Julian says, pensive as well. "Well, say they are there. It's not like Chicago is one block wide. You have the same chance of running into them as you do Oprah or Obama."

I narrow my eyes, pursing my lips after. "I don't think that's exactly right," I say.

He laughs and leans back against the couch. "You know what I mean though," he says. "Even if they are there, it's a big city."

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, my chin on closed fists. "Sometimes I think about what we did," I mutter, staring into space. "What me and Jackson did to them." Julian is quiet as he waits for me to finish my thought. "I mean, it was evil. It was selfish and cruel to separate them." I shake my head and close my eyes, tasting the familiar regret and disappointment I always experience whenever my other daughter and her father come to mind. "It wasn't right."

"But you did what you had to do with the situation you were given," Julian says, trying to make me feel better.

"What parents pick a child and go their separate ways?"

"Lindsay Lohan's did, in that one movie," he points out.

I don't laugh. "Not funny," I say. "This is real life. This is _our_ life. And if we move there, I'm tempting fate."

Julian studies me and I feel him doing so. "Maybe you want to, though," he says, barely blinking. When I don't respond, he says, "I think you do."

**SKYE**

Two days later, I leave musical rehearsal with my violin case under one arm, staring at the ground. Everyone else walks out the other doors, the rest of the cast, and I walk out of these. Because I walk or bike home, and this exit is closer to my house, and also hanging with the rest of the group always makes me feel left out. I always get excluded, so it's just easier to exclude myself. That's something my mom doesn't know. She, like my uncle and grandparents, think I'm pretty popular with a lot of friends. I've kept the whole loner thing a secret since the end of middle school, when my best friend dumped me for the soccer girls.

I'm reaching to put in my earbuds when I hear my mom's voice. "Hey, baby!" she calls, and I lift my head. Most kids my age would hate being called that, I guess, especially around school. But me and my mom have been close my whole life, probably because all we have is each other. I don't mind her nicknames for me, and I like that we're really tight. Other kids I know, especially girls, hate their moms. I can't imagine hating my mom. The thought alone makes my stomach sink.

But I have no idea what she's doing here in the parking lot. She never picks me up. If anyone, it's usually Grandma. Mom typically works until dinnertime. Doing what, I have no clue. People barely go to the Whaling Museum in the summer, let alone the off-season. But she likes it. At least she did, before she was offered that big job in Chicago. Now, I don't know how she feels about it. Maybe I should put two and two together and realize that she's not at work, she's picking me up from school. So, that's how she feels.

Me and Mom tell each other everything. Mostly everything. I don't really tell her about my crushes because I don't tell anyone about them. But everything else is fair game. She's told me everything about her from her first period to the first time Grandma caught her with a boy. And that boy happened to be my dad.

My dad is the one subject that I skirt around, though. She pretends not to be uncomfortable, but I can tell she is. Her face changes in tiny ways that no one would notice if you weren't her daughter. Her lips get thin and her eyes wander, like she's remembering something from a long time ago that she doesn't quite want to remember.

I've never had this undying urge to meet my dad like the movies talk about. I don't dream about what he looks like - I _know_ what he looks like. Mom has shown me plenty of pictures. Her on his lap, the two of them at prom and at football games. I cringed when I found a blurry shot of them kissing. No one wants to see their parents like that.

But he's gone and he's been gone for my whole life. How can I miss what I never had? Not everything has to be this big sob story. My mom has always been both a mom and a dad to me.

Sometimes, I think she wants me to miss him. During the rare nights when she drinks wine, she lets herself talk about him and get sentimental. I kind of want to crawl into a hole and die when she does that, but I don't want to make her feel bad, so I let her do it. She's never actually full-out cried, but her eyes get shiny and she gets really close. I can't muster up those feelings for him, though. I get it. She was in love with him, they made me together, then he left. So, she has a reason to be sad. But I've lived a good life with her and without him. What am I supposed to cry over?

"Hi, mama," I say, shuffling up to the car. "What are you doing?"

"You done with practice?" she asks, ducking so she can see me. I nod. "Get in, then. Let's go to the beach."

It's a little late in the day for laying out and swimming, but I don't put up a fight. I don't know what she's got up her sleeve, but it seems to be something. So, I set my violin and my backpack in the back seat and buckle myself in next to her, one arm out the window as she cruises down Madaket Road. The radio is playing softly, but it's too quiet for me to be able to tell what song is actually on. I don't bother turning it up, though. I can tell something is on Mom's mind, so that pressure weighs on me, too.

We park - half of the sand and half on the asphalt, and get out. I leave my shoes in the car and lead the way down the path to the beach, breathing in the salty sea air that I've inhaled my entire life.

"Wait up, birdie," Mom calls, smiling as she treks through the sand - shoeless just like I am. "I'm coming."

We make it to the shoreline as the waves lap at our feet, and walk side-by-side. No one else is here, which is nice. I figured no one would be.

Mom takes my hand and I let her. That's another thing that kids my age never allow their moms to do anymore, but I still like it. I don't know if I'd like it so much around my classmates, but here I squeeze her hand and she smiles towards the sun. It bounces off her red hair like waves of fire, and I let my eyes linger on it. When I was little, I used to fall asleep by running my fingers through her hair. Otherwise, I wouldn't even close my eyes. And even though she's almost forty and old now, she hasn't gone gray one bit. I hope she never does. I don't know anyone else with hair like hers.

"I remember I had my fifth birthday party here," I say, my voice cutting through the sound of the waves. "And the librarian dressed up like Tiana for me."

Mom laughs and I smile. I knew she'd like that. "She sure did," she says, then pauses to think for a while. "I bet you don't remember your second birthday here, though."

I shake my head. "What did we do?"

She squeezes my fingers. "It was just me and you," she says. "I don't know what your grandparents were doing, or where Uncle Jules was, but they weren't here. Me and you ate a whole box of cupcakes by ourselves, right here on the sand. Although, you always loved to eat sand, so you were pretty interested in that, too." She laughs, and so do I. "We went swimming, and you got so cold. I wrapped you up like a little bug in your towel and cradled you, and we watched the sun go down as you fell asleep." She looks at me, and her eyes are shiny like they get when she talks about my dad. It makes my heart twist. Seeing her cry - or almost cry - makes me feel helpless, because it's like our roles get reversed. And I'm not ready to take care of her yet, or have her be done taking care of me. But I don't think I'd ever say that out loud. "I love you, Ky," she says.

"Love you too, mama," I say, bumping her shoulder with mine.

"And I have to tell you something," she says. She stops walking and motions for us to sit, so I follow her lead and cross my legs in the sand. She watches the water as the low-hanging sun heats up our faces, and takes a deep breath. I already know what she's going to say, so I don't know why she's dragging it out like this.

"We're moving?" I say, beating her to the punch.

She looks at me and away from the water, then forces her lips into a sad smile. "Yeah," she says. "I have to take that job." She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "I never thought I'd get an opportunity like this. And it was a really hard decision for me to come to, because I know you love the island. It's your home. And it's mine, too, and it's where our… our family is," she says. "But…"

"It's okay, mom," I say, though I feel myself closing off.

"I want to explain, though," she says. "Chicago has so many more opportunities for you, birdie. You're too smart for this little high school. I'm gonna get you into the _best_ school. And we're gonna live in a beautiful apartment, in a beautiful city. The one that I grew up in. And it's gonna be a new adventure for both of us. The last thing I wanna do is make you feel like I'm taking this job for me, and you just have to come along for the ride. I'm taking it for _you_, baby, because I can give you so much more with it."

I know she's telling the truth, but it doesn't make this giant change any easier to swallow. Of course, I've left this island plenty of times. But I've never _lived_ off of it. I've always had the ocean as my backyard, and my family right beside me. I've never known anything bigger than a home that's 15 miles long. And now, I'm going to be thrown into a huge city.

It's too scary to even think about. And I feel like I'm going to hate it.

I can't help but cry. The tears come out of nowhere and they don't stop. Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me close, and even though a part of me wants to fight her, I don't. I rest my head on her chest and sob while she rubs my back, shushing me like I assume she did when I was smaller.

"I promise, baby, it's gonna be good," she says, then picks my head up. She wipes my tears away with her thumbs and looks right into my eyes. I see that she's crying, too. Slower than me, quieter too, but she is. "And if it's not, we can come back. I swear."

"You promise?" I ask.

It's a stupid thing to ask. She probably doesn't mean it, but I need to hear her say it. I need to know that Nantucket is always an option, that it's always a home I can come back to. Because I can't leave knowing I'll never be back.

"I promise," she says, and plants a firm kiss to my forehead. "I love you, Ky. We're gonna do this together. Okay?"

I don't want to say okay. I want to be an obstinate teenager, I want to refute her and stomp away in the sand, claiming that she can go, but I'm staying with my grandparents. Part of me wants to fit the stereotypical teenage mold for once, and not go along with what she says.

But the look on her face doesn't let me behave in that way. Because she needs me, and I need her. And we're all each other has, really. So, she's right. We're gonna do this together. And hopefully, it'll turn out okay. She's never lied to me before, so I choose to trust her now.

So, I agree. "Yeah," I say, gone hoarse from crying. She gives me a little smile, and that makes me feel a tiny bit better. "Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

**JACKSON**

I used to be a heavy sleeper. In college, nothing could wake me up. I had to set a handful of alarms before I'd even stir - and that would surely annoy whoever was sleeping next to me. But now, as a surgeon who's needed at strange hours of the night, that isn't the case. Now, I wake at the drop of a hat because I need to be alert for the sound of my pager.

But tonight, incessant buzzing isn't what makes me open my eyes. Tonight, it's the sound of something falling in my daughter's room, something heavy. I sit up instantly, attuned to the sound, and I don't hesitate before standing to make my way down the hall towards where she sleeps.

Our apartment isn't huge, but it's by no means small. It's located in the heart of the Gold Coast on Rush Street, so there's a lot of sound from the street below. I'm used to all that by now. What I'm not used to is the clamoring and whispered obscenities from Clementine's room as I get closer to her door.

"Shit," she hisses, clear as day. "The fire escape ladder isn't down! Pull it! I can't jump that far, idiot!"

Troubled, I push open her door without warning. She's sitting in the sill of her open window, one leg inside and one leg out, assumedly giving orders to someone down below.

"Dad!" she shouts, eyes wide as she grips the window ledge. "What are you doing?!"

"What are _you_ doing?" I bellow, marching to the window where she still sits, frozen. I grab her wrist and yank her inside, slamming the window shut after. "It's 2am, and you're what? Sneaking out?"

"Let go," she says, ripping her arm from my grip. In the struggle, she drops a half-full bottle of something - something that, upon closer inspection, I see is the brandy that I keep above the fridge.

"Jesus Christ," I say, snatching it from the floor. "Clemmie, you're 14."

She glares at me with a look that could kill. "I'm almost 15, and it's not for me. It's for my friend. Well, it _was_."

"Yeah, sure," I say, switching on the light. When I do, I see she's dressed in a black denim mini-skirt and a tight purple tank top. Only flip-flops on her feet, and what looks to be her entire stash of makeup on her face. I close my eyes for a second, centering myself while trying to find a place to begin. Lately, I've had no idea. None at all. "Sit your ass down," I say sternly.

"I already told you, it's not for me," she insists.

"This isn't about the alcohol," I say, setting onto her dresser with force. "It's about the bad choices you're making."

"Bad choices? Seriously?" she says, still standing. She crosses her arms and lifts her eyebrows, challenging me. I can't begin to count the times in the last six months I've been given that look. "This is like, nothing, compared to what my friends are doing. You honestly have no clue, Jackson."

"I am not Jackson to you," I say, growing angry now. "I'm either 'Dad,' 'Daddy,' or if you wanna get formal, 'Mr. Avery.' But if you wanna call me Jackson, you're gonna start paying rent."

"God," she says, then finally sits. Because it was her decision to do so. She crosses her legs in a gesture that makes her look much too old, and rolls her eyes.

"Who were you meeting?" I ask. "Who was down there?"

"No one," she grumbles.

"So, the brandy then. It was for you."

"No, it wasn't. That shit tastes horrible."

"Watch your mouth. Then who was waiting downstairs for you?"

"It was nobody, okay? He's gone now, anyway. It's not like you're gonna go down there and do whatever to him. I don't know, arrest him? Beat him up? Just stop, dad."

"Are you seeing a boy?" I ask, knowing I won't like the answer. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.

"God, dad, stop!" she says, raising her upper lip. "It's none of your business. Stop pretending like you care."

"I care about my daughter crawling out the window in the middle of the damn night," I say. "What if you had fallen?"

"Well, you scared the shit out of me and almost made it happen, so congratulations," she mumbles.

"Stop with all the backtalk," I say. "And listen to me. If you try this shit again, I'm putting bars on your window."

"Who am I, Harry Potter?" she snaps.

I ignore the question. I'm tempted to argue back, but I push away the urge. She is the child, I'm the parent. Just because she's acting in an infuriating manner doesn't mean I should stoop to her level. "You're grounded," I say, trying to sound as firm as possible. "For a month. You won't step out of this house unless it's for school. Do you understand me?"

"Sure," she shrugs.

Hot anger rises in my chest because her reaction is all too fitting. She and I both know I won't do shit to enforce the grounding, because I never have in the past. I let her get away with anything and everything, and that trend has only gotten worse as she's gotten older. But it's begun to bite me in the ass, and she doesn't see it now, but it'll do the same to her down the road. She'll run into situations she can't get out of, but she won't hear that from me. I have to figure out another move, something to make her hear me, something to change this budding lifestyle. But as we stare each other down across her bedroom, I can't think of anything. I decide to come back to it in the morning.

"Go to bed," I say, grabbing the brandy bottle by the neck. "Wash your face first."

I turn around and leave her room, heading back to my own. I leave the alcohol in the bathroom and splash water on my face, trying to clear my head enough to land on a solution. Clementine isn't a bad kid, I know that better than anyone. But she's going to find herself amongst them, and I don't want that for her. Her friends are the most insufferable people I've ever met - they probably share five brain cells among the group - and I don't expect much more from this boy she won't speak about.

I go back to bed and when I do, Bree stirs. She's a light sleeper, too - not quite as light as I am, but close. I don't doubt she was awake to hear the entire dialogue between Clemmie and me.

"Everything okay?" she murmurs, rolling to look at me as I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. "What happened?"

I let out a long sigh and close my eyes, knowing full well that I have no hope of getting back to sleep. "She was halfway out her window, trying to leave," I say, then throw my hands up. They fall back and hit my lap with a light sound. "She's 14. Was I stupid not to expect it this early?" I shake my head at the rhetorical question. "Something has to change, but I don't know what. What do you think? Were you like that at 14?"

"I liked boys," Bree says. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"No, there's not," I say. "I've given her that talk since she was 8. But there is something wrong with sneaking out at 2am with alcohol before you can even fucking drive."

"You're right," she agrees, sounding sleepier by the second. "You'll figure it out, babe."

"I was like that as a teenager. I used to be fucking crazy, until I met-" I cut myself off and press my lips together, eyebrows furrowing as I reroute my train of thought. "I never thought Clemmie would be that way, too. I love all of her amazing qualities and I'm proud that they came from me, but I really did not want to give her that gene. She's better than the party scene. Especially this young."

"Hmm," Bree murmurs, asleep again.

I sigh, alone with my thoughts. Even though my girlfriend is asleep, I keep talking. It helps to put the words somewhere besides the confines of my head. "It's the environment," I say. "Her atmosphere. If I take those friends away, she'll have to make new ones. But what are we supposed to do, move?"

I shake my head. I can't leave my job - I worked half my life to get where I am today. I won't uproot us from this city. There are plenty of options within it.

"It's the school," I say.

Three hours later, I've picked a new school and printed out an application for Clementine to start at the beginning of next year. Chicago Waldorf School, where tuition is as high as the expectations, where I'm hoping she'll be accepted. This is a place that can change her life, and a place where she'll thrive.

She'll hate me in the process, but she'll thank me in a decade or so.

Happy with my plan, I close my eyes just as the sun begins to peek through the wall-to-wall windows. For the first time in a while, I feel settled. I'm making a good choice for my daughter amongst a sea of bad ones from both of us.

I can't help but think that Chicago Waldorf School is a conclusion that April would have come to as well. But as soon as I pause on that thought, I whisk it away. I don't think about her anymore.

…

It's late June, which means Clementine's freshman year at Lincoln Park High School is over anyway. I'm on call today, but I don't get any pages before she trudges down the hall, rubbing her eyes just after noon. Bree left for work a few hours ago, so it's just the two of us, which is preferable for the news I'm about to deliver.

"Clemmie," I say, while sitting at the kitchen table. "There's breakfast."

I gesture to the toast and jam, bagels and cream cheese, and muffins I laid out. I didn't want to admit to myself earlier that I was buttering her up, but now I can see how obvious that is. She casts her eyes to the table, sizes it up, then glares at me. Though her eyes are brown and April's were not, that one is a look so, so familiar.

"Not hungry," she says, but lingers. I know she's lying, and it won't take long for her to break.

"I wanna talk to you," I say.

"Don't you have work?" she asks, crossing her arms. "It's like, late. I thought you'd be gone."

I hold up my pager and wiggle it. "They'll let me know when I'm needed."

She sighs, shoulders deflating. She knows she won't get rid of me anytime soon. Slowly, she shuffles forward and pulls out a chair before slumping into it, elbows on the table with her cheeks in her hands. She eyes a chocolate chip muffin then glances at me, but I look away in time to make it seem like I'm not watching her. From my peripherals, I see her take it and begin to unwrap it.

"What?" she says, keenly noticing my eyes.

"Nothing," I say.

"You're looking at me funny."

I try to make my body relax in the chair, but it's difficult with all the nerves coursing through my body. Clementine is my daughter, I'm her father - the parent in this situation. But for so many years, she's held such a reign over the household that it's hard not to view every one of our interactions as a power struggle. I'm sure no good father has to psych himself up before disciplining his child, he just does it. It should come naturally. But for me, it never has.

"We need to talk about your choices, and what to do to change them," I say, trying to sound fatherly. I want to come across serious. There's no room for her to second-guess the decision I'm making. I'm not sure what my next move is if she gets combative.

"I already told you, I wasn't going to drink that stupid brandy," she says. "It's fucking nasty."

"What did I say about swearing?" I snap, letting out a long breath as I choose to let go of that fight. I have to learn to take things one step at a time. Rome wasn't built in a day; but I remind myself that it was, in fact, built. I can do this.

"Sorry," she grumbles, her mouth full.

"In September, you won't be going back to LP High School," I say. Instantly, her expression changes into one of shock, but I give her no time to respond. "I've already started your application to Chicago Waldorf School. You'll have to put work into it, too; I'm not going to do everything. But it's a private school, it'll look much better on college applications, and it'll get you where you need to be."

"Where I need to be?" she says, her voice higher than normal. "What does that even mean?"

"You've been going down a…" I try to find the right words and end up pausing, sounding insecure, which is not what I wanted. Shit. "You're 14, Clementine," I say, amending the statement. "And I'm your father, which means I make the decisions around here. And I've decided that LP High School isn't the best place for you. Waldorf is a much better environment, one where you can flourish into the young lady I know you can be."

"What's wrong with who I am now?" she asks. "I don't even get a say in this? It's not like I'm 5, dad. All my friends are at LP. And I didn't even say goodbye or anything on the last day. And now you're telling me I have to leave? I already have my classes for next year. I already have my locker. Me and Trina had like, every class together. Are you serious? Like, honestly?"

"I'm completely serious," I say, folding my hands. "I'm sorry if you feel like this is uprooting-"

"Duh, I feel that way," she says, harshly wiping her eyes. She doesn't want me to see her crying; she never does. "This isn't fair. This is so not fucking fair."

"Clementine, enough," I say.

"Don't tell me 'enough,'" she says, sniffling and openly sobbing now. "You're ruining my life. I hate you. I hate you so much."

She stands up from the table and forces the chair back, leaving half a muffin behind. "Clemmie," I call after her, standing up as well.

"Whatever!" she shouts, then slams her door.

I exhale deeply and sit back down, head in my hands. I massage my temples slowly, staring at my own untouched plate, and wonder where the hell I went wrong. I've never felt all too capable on my own, but now it's worse than ever. Maybe Clemmie is right. Maybe I am ruining her life.

Or maybe, 13 years ago, April and I both did.

…

The apartment is oddly quiet until my pager goes off. I don't bother clearing the table, telling myself that I'll do it when I get home. I'm not stupid enough to think that Clemmie will find a burst of inspiration to do it while she's grounded all day.

"Bye, honey," I shout, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. "I should be home for dinner. But if I'm not, there's takeout money on the fridge."

I get no response. Not even the sound of shuffling or moving around from her room. I rest one hand on the doorknob and debate leaving, but I want to hear her voice before I go. Just to comfort myself. So, I make my way down the hall and open my daughter's door without knocking, only to find it as silent as it was while I was in the kitchen.

The window is open, the curtains are fluttering, and Clementine has left the building.

**CLEMENTINE**

Steaming mad, I tie my hair into a careless bun as I stomp away from the apartment and towards the Red Line. My dad probably thinks I disappeared, or was kidnapped, or that I'm dead somewhere, but I don't care. I'm not going to stay gone forever. I'm not an idiot, just pissed. I'll be back for dinner. He has to work anyway. I know he's not going to call the police or anything like that, because he just won't. He pretends to be this doting, caring father, but I don't think he ever really wanted to be a parent at all. This weird look comes over his face when he tries extra hard to be a dad, like he's trying on a mask that doesn't fit his face. It's weird.

Sometimes, I think if he'd stop trying so hard, things would be fine. But I think the last time things were 'fine,' I was like, ten. Or nine, or maybe even eight. Before I knew about the whole mess with my mom, that's when things were easier. After I learned everything, I stopped being confused over why everyone else had a mom and I didn't, and started hating myself.

I killed my mom when I was born, basically. She was a really small person - I've seen pictures. She was short as hell; I'm tall like my dad. Pregnancy wasn't easy on her body. A lot of things went wrong while I was inside her. I don't know specifics, because I hate asking - it's hard for my dad to talk about her without getting all emotional, and I hate seeing him like that. Not only because it's weird, but also because it's my fault that she's gone.

She had an aneurysm when I was born. No one even knew it was inside her head, and as she was pushing me out, it burst. She died really quickly, apparently, and my dad was left to take care of me on his own. I can't imagine how hard it was for him to have just lost his wife (or girlfriend? I don't know if they ever got married) and have to take care of a needy newborn at the same time. It was probably hell.

He never really dated when I was young, either. Now, he has Bree, who's more of an annoyance than anything. She doesn't add anything to my life and I don't think she likes me that much. I'm pretty sure all I do is get in her way of banging my dad. It doesn't matter anyway, because I take care of myself most of the time now.

There's this lady who lives in our building who used to watch me. She's too old now, which is good because so am I, but I used to be at her apartment more than I was at my own. Her name is Gemma, but I've always called her Nanny Gem. She's like the grandma I never had.

Because of all that, it's hard to blame my dad when he's a shit parent. When he's too strict, I think he thinks he's being what a dad is supposed to be. Maybe my mom would have been better at all this. I love my dad, I wouldn't trade him for any other dad, but it's hard not to think about what it would be like with both of them. What life would have been like if she wouldn't have died, if I wouldn't have killed her. In the end, it all comes back to me. If I was never born, April and my dad could still be together.

That's the shit that keeps me up at night.

And now, there's even more shit to add onto it. I'm getting ripped from my school - my school which honestly sucks, but it's still mine - and getting sent to some bougie ass bullshit school that I've only ever seen billboards for. I already know I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. If my dad thinks he's helping me by sending me there, he's more delusional than I thought. It's going to make me hate my life more than I already do, all those spoiled kids who think they're so smart just because they go to a private school.

And now, I'm about to become one of those kids. Wonderful.

It's impossible to shake all this from my head as I see my boyfriend, James, sitting by the fountain at Washington Park. He's in khakis and a light blue t-shirt, he's literally such a nerd, but I can't help but smile. I'm smiling partly because he makes me happy most of the time, and partly because this is a segment of my life that my dad not only has no control over, but has no idea about. That gives me more satisfaction than I can even say.

"Hey, Tiny," James says once I get closer. He's one of the few people who shortens my name to Tiny instead of Clemmie. I kind of like it. I'm thinking about telling other people to do it, too. "What's up? Thought you were on house arrest."

"I broke out," I say, sitting across from him on the ledge of the fountain. I lean over and kiss him, and he kisses me back for a long time.

James is my first boyfriend ever, though not the first boy I've ever liked. He was the one at my window last night - he's the one at my window every night. But usually, my desk lamp doesn't fall over and wake up my dad. James is awesome not only because he's my little secret, but because he's nothing like the idiotic, immature boys in my classes. He's 17, which automatically makes him so much cooler. I still have no idea why he likes me.

"Cool," he says, rolling papers on the cement ledge.

"What're you up to today?" I ask him. Admittedly, he's not the best conversationalist. I have to do a lot of the talking between us. One time, my dad said I got that from my mom. She was apparently _always_ talking.

"This," he says. "Work in a bit."

"So, you can't hang for that long?" I ask. He shakes his head and I sigh. "Well, shit," I say. "'Cause I'm having a really horrible day. My dad is the fucking worst."

"I know. He fucked everything up last night," James says without looking up.

"He always does," I mutter, resting my chin on a closed fist. "It was even worse this morning."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," I say. "I can't go back to LP next year. I have to go to some private school. I even have to apply. It's like college, with an application and tuition and all that shit. Like, I have to pay to get tortured. I want to kill myself."

"Shit, that sucks," he says. "What're you gonna do?"

"What do you mean? I have to go," I say.

"You don't _have_ to do anything you don't wanna do," James says.

"If I don't, my dad will kill me."

"What can he really do to you, though? He won't do shit."

Part of me thinks James is right, but the other part, weirdly, wants to side with my dad. I have no idea where that's coming from, because I pretty much hate him right now.

"Yeah, I don't know," I say.

"You wanna try a smoke?" James asks, lifting a joint he just rolled. "Might make you feel better."

He takes a hit and blows the smoke away from me, but the wind brings it back. I can't help the disgusted face I make in response. It smells horrible.

"I'm good," I say, waving the air in front of my face.

"I got some vodka in my backpack," he says, nudging it with his foot. Then, he chuckles. "That'll definitely make everything better."

"No," I say. "There's enough of literally everything at my house."

"True," he agrees. "Your dad an alcoholic, or something?"

"No," I say instantly, defensively. "He barely even touches it. I think he used to drink a lot more. Then, he stopped."

"Why?"

I shrug and say, "I don't know."

"If you feel like making out, we can head to my house for a few."

"No," I say quickly. "Not… yet. Not right now."

We spend another thirty minutes or so at the fountain, talking about nothing. Well, I talk about a whole lot of nothing and James sits there quietly, maybe listening and maybe not. I never know with him. Then, it comes time for him to go to work at Subway and I'm left at the fountain alone, swishing my fingertips across the surface of the water and eyeing the coins resting on the tiles.

I search my pockets for change and find one single penny, which is better than nothing. I rest it on my thumbnail, staring at the dull copper for a long moment. I'm not thinking, because I don't have to think. Every time I see a star, throw a coin into a fountain, or blow on a dandelion, I wish for the same thing.

I flip the penny into the water where it lands with a resounding 'plop!' As I watch it sink and eventually find its way to the bottom, my wish reverberates through my mind in much the same way.

I just want my mom.

…

I get tired of walking around the streets, both physically and mentally. By the time I make it back to our building, the sun is going down and my feet hurt like nothing else. I make it inside the lobby to find it mostly empty except for one person knitting on an armchair - Nanny Gem.

I see her before she sees me, and I can't help but think how old she looks now. Not in a bad way, but kind of in a sad way. When I was little, she always seemed vivacious and full of life, even if she was like a grandma. But now, she seems tinier than ever, and withered. But the spark in her eyes is still there, which is what I always tell myself. She's not going anywhere anytime soon.

I walk over and rest my hand on the back of her chair, which makes her look up. Once she realizes it's me, a big smile breaks onto her face and she gasps. "Sweetheart," she says. "I haven't seen you in so long."

"Hi, Nanny Gem," I say, leaning down for a hug. I linger and let her hold me for as long as she wants to. She's the only person who I let hug me at all, no less a hug like that. I can't remember the last time my dad wrapped his arms around me. I'm sure he would if I asked, but it would be weird to _ask _for a hug. And he's not the type for physical affection. He never has been.

"You get more beautiful every time I see you," she says, motioning for me to sit on the footrest of her chair. I do, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees, facing her. She cups my chin with one hand and strokes my skin with her thumb, smiling softly. "Getting so very grown up, aren't you?"

"I don't know," I say gently.

"Don't go too fast," she says. "Adulthood is for the birds. That's why I always passed on it." We both laugh and then she tips her head to the side and studies me. "Are you doing okay, Clemmie?"

I shrug one shoulder, fighting tears. I hated crying in front of my dad this morning, but I couldn't stop it. I don't mind crying with Nanny Gem, but I still wish we weren't in the lobby where everyone can see.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says, pulling me close again. I rest my head on her chest and cry my heart out, shoulders shaking and everything. She lets me, too. She pets my hair and rocks me side to side like she used to do when I was little and fell off my bike. Her hugs feel the same way they did then - comforting and stable; like everything in the world is going to be alright because she has me and she always will.

When I'm ready to pull away, I sit up and wipe my eyes. Nanny Gem hands me a handkerchief that I dab my cheeks with, and I give her a soft, apologetic smile.

"What is it?" she asks.

My throat tightens again. What is it about crying that makes it so much worse when someone asks what's wrong? "I don't know," I say, and my voice is very small.

"Is it your daddy?"

I nod, rubbing my nose. "Everything is messed up," I say.

"What happened?"

I sniffle, letting slow tears run down my cheeks freely. "He's taking me out of my school and putting me in a new one. One where I don't know a single person. And it's private, so it's gonna be full of a bunch of kids way smarter than me, and it's gonna suck. I don't wanna move schools, but he's making me."

"Oh…" she says, holding my hand. Hers feels small and fragile in mine. I remember when mine used to be the tiny ones.

"He won't even listen to me," I say, letting my head fall forward. "He never does. He never hears my side, and when he does, he doesn't believe me. I don't wanna go to that stupid school. And Bree is practically living with us now, which I never wanted, either. But he never asked me. He doesn't care about what I think about anything."

Now, she holds both of my hands. "I know it feels that way," Nanny Gem says. "And your dad isn't perfect. No one is. Although you and I come very close." I let out a waterlogged laugh. "I promise, by putting you in this school, he's trying to help you. This is what he knows to give you. He might not always know what to say, or what you're thinking, but he knows how far education can take a young lady. He wants to give you the right tools. I know how much he loves you, and you know, too. Sometimes, he just has a hard time knowing how to show it."

I know she's right. She's always right. "But why?" I ask. She shakes her head slowly, letting out a long breath. "Is it because of what happened to my mom?"

She meets my eyes with a somber expression. She knows as much as I do about my mom, or at least I think she does. I don't think she knows much more. My dad doesn't like talking about it with people outside of our family. Our family, which consists of me and him.

"That probably has something to do with it, yes," Nanny Gem says. "Losing your mother took a big toll on him. I do know that for a fact. It changed him. It would change anyone."

"Is it dumb to miss her even though I never knew her?" I ask, then feel the tears again. "Am I even allowed to miss her when it's all my fault?"

"Clementine," she says sternly, gripping my fingers tighter. "It is not your fault. I have told you time and time again that it's not."

I blink and tears fall. "I know," I say. "But…"

"No," she says. "You are allowed to feel any which way you want. Of course you can miss her. I know your daddy misses her. Hell, I miss her and never spent a single moment with her." I smile a bit. "But I feel lucky that I get to know her through you."

I look away, saying, "I'm not anything like her."

Nanny Gem gently touches my chin so I'll meet her eyes again. "That's where you're wrong," she says. "I think you're everything like her."

…

A while later, I go up to my room. Bree is home, but she's in the kitchen so I avoid her by heading down the hall right away. I lay on my bed and put my headphones in, singing along to one of my favorite artists - Adele. I close my eyes and rest on top of my covers, listening to the entire album of 25 before I feel something close to okay.

When I open my eyes, my dad is standing in the open doorway, leaning on the jamb with his arms crossed. My heart practically jumps out of my chest as I rip my earbuds out, and I sit up quicker than anything. "God, dad!" I say, pulse hammering. "Why are you such a creep?"

He puts his hands up in surrender. "I was just listening to you sing," he says.

"Well, don't," I say, lying back down and turning to face the wall.

"You have your mom's voice," he says, and I hear his footsteps on the carpet. "She loved to sing, too. She got me to sing when no one else could. She even told me I was good."

"Yeah, she's definitely a liar then," I say.

I hear him exhale and a beat of silence passes. Then, a dirty, balled-up shirt that had been on my floor goes sailing through the air and lands in my laundry hamper across the room. "He shoots," Dad says. "He scores! Ahhh, Michael Jordan in the house."

"More like Miles Plumlee. You suck."

"Oooh, hitting me with the basketball trivia, okay," he says, then sits down at the foot of my bed. I don't bother turning, but I know he's looking at me. I feel his eyes. "I ran into Gemma in the lobby a few minutes ago," he says. "She told me you guys talked." I grunt and shrug. "So, how come she's the only one you'll talk to around here?"

"'Cause she's not you," I grumble.

"Alright," he says, sighing. "Well, she narc'd on you a little bit. Told me how you feel about Waldorf."

"Yeah, but obviously you already knew that," I say.

"And she told me about what you think about Bree being here so much, and that you miss your mom."

My cheeks heat up red. Nanny Gem cannot keep her mouth shut, I know that much, but I was hoping she wouldn't run into my dad anytime soon. If enough time passes, she forgets. But I guess I wasn't so lucky tonight.

"I always try and do what's best for you, Clemmie," Dad says. "I swear, I do. I know sometimes it might not feel like that, but it's true. You're my number one priority. Not my job, not Bree, you." I stay quiet. He can say that all he wants, but it doesn't feel like the truth. "And if me and you could talk more, I think we'd both feel better. We could get along better. Can we make that happen?"

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. His face is open, like he's really trying. And I'd like to think that he is. Maybe things could actually change around here, I don't know. He's talking to me like I'm a little kid, but maybe he doesn't know how to talk to the teenager version of me yet. Even though it's not that hard.

"Yeah," I say.

"So, that means no more sneaking out," he says. "And no drinking. I'll gladly take a shot with you when you're 21, or have a beer with you when you're 18, but 14 is way too young."

"Well, technically I'm 15 next month," I say.

"Okay, smart aleck," he says.

I flip onto my back so I can really see him, then go over what he said in my mind. That we should talk about more things with each other. Maybe that means he wants to be more open about my mom, which is what I've wanted for a long time. Not the sad stuff, but the good stuff. But that probably means I have to be more open, too, so I should figure out a way to do that.

"Dad," I say.

"Clemmie."

"When you make out with someone, does it always lead to sex? Or not all the time?" His eyes widen and his face flushes a bit. He definitely didn't see that question coming, but that's okay. I don't get embarrassed by this kind of conversation, even with him. I don't know why. "Like when you and my mom were together. How did it go?"

He spends a minute looking extremely confused, his eyes darting all around the room. He clears his throat, regaining composure, before asking, "Are you… are you asking about me and your mom's… um, our sex life, Clemmie?"

I shrug, unbothered. "I guess," I say.

"Can I ask why?"

I sit up, crossing my legs. "I don't know," I say. "Not like, private details. Get your mind out of the gutter, dad. But like, how old you were. When you guys first did it, how old were you?"

He chews the inside of his cheek, something he does when he's nervous. I've noticed that. He always does it when I bring her up. "Uh, we were both 18," he says.

"You're just saying that so I won't have sex 'til I'm 18," I say.

"I'm not," he says, eyebrows up.

"Tell me how it went, then."

He frowns. "You wanna know how… our first time was?"

"Not like _that_!" I say. "Dad. I just wanna know how you guys knew it was the right time. God, don't be disgusting."

"Oh," he says. "Well… then, okay. It was the summer after our senior year of high school. We both went to Lane Tech and met at prom a few months earlier."

"But you didn't go together. Both of your dates sucked," I say. I know this story well.

"Yep," he says. "And we… we fell in love pretty fast, I'd say. Teenagers tend to do that." He gives me a look. "We started dating the summer before college. We decided we both wanted to go to UChicago. We wanted to stay close to each other, and it's a great school."

"Get to the point, dad."

He laughs a little. "Well, I don't know if we spent a lot of time thinking about whether or not it was the 'right time' for us to sleep together. To be honest, it just happened. We'd been dating for a few months, not all that long, and it felt right. That sounds stupid, I know, you don't have to tell me that. But when you're with someone that you know you're gonna be with for a while, there's no sense in waiting."

"So, you always knew you wanted to be with her forever?"

He nods slowly, a faraway look in his eyes. That look hurts me so bad I almost wish I hadn't asked.

"But it wasn't forever," I say quickly, picking at a thread on my pajama pants.

"Well," he says. "No." He reaches for me and takes my hand; it's the first time he's touched me like that in a long time. I let him, because it feels kind of nice. "Our forever was a little shorter than most."


	6. Chapter 6

**APRIL**

Skye and I are in the attic, packing up the last of our things. There are items in here that I forgot existed; we moved into this house over a decade ago, and it seems I left some memories to collect dust amongst the Christmas decorations.

"Mama, what is this?" Skye asks as I'm rifling through a scrapbook I made for her elementary school years. Inside, there's an award for winning a spelling bee, a field day participation certificate, and a class photo where she's in the back - always the tallest. She definitely didn't get that from me.

I look over to see her holding up a stuffed animal that's nearly bigger than she is. It's a purple dragon of some sort, made of cheap material that's balding in some places. That thing sat on my bed for the entirety of college - first the twin in my dorm, then the one Jackson and I shared in our tiny apartment.

He won it for me on the night we shared our first kiss. It was for ring toss, a game he was horrible at, but always very determined. I remember standing next to him, arms wrapped around his waist like he might float away, as I watched him try to make three rings on a single bottleneck. I'm not sure how much time we spent at that station, but it was so long that the attendant eventually felt sorry enough to let him pick out the biggest stuffed animal after only succeeding with two rings.

He picked that giant purple dragon, named it Grapefruit, and gave it to me. I was well past the age of liking stuffed animals, but it made me happier than anything. In the middle of the bustling carnival crowd, he held my face in his hands and kissed me with that giant stuffed thing sandwiched between us. I didn't stop smiling for the rest of the night.

"Oh…" I say, coming back to the present with Grapefruit staring me in the face. I debate whether or not I should fabricate something or tell her the truth. Lately, I've been so confused over what stance to take on that. "I… um, that's Grapefruit."

"Grapefruit?" Skye repeats, looking at the dragon's face.

"Yeah," I say, putting the scrapbook back where it belongs. "Your dad won it for me a long, long time ago."

"Oh," she says, placing it back on the floor. "At a carnival, or something?"

"Yep," I say, trying to keep my hands busy. "Ring toss."

"What else did you guys do that night?" she asks, almost as if she knows there's more to the story.

"Not much," I say, then look up with an apologetic expression on my face. "I don't really feel like talking about him right now, if that's alright, sweetie."

"Sorry," she says submissively.

"No need," I say.

"Should we leave Grapefruit then?"

I blink a few times, contemplating. I forgot stupid Grapefruit was even up here, but the thought of leaving him in the attic all alone tears me in two. But making a big deal out of taking an ancient relic with us to a brand-new house is silly. "Yeah," I say. "Maybe the new residents will have a little kid."

…

As we take the ferry to the mainland - where we'll drive to Boston and catch our flight to Chicago - the car is quiet. It's a gray, misty day in the middle of August, not worth getting out and observing the water. We've already said our own personal goodbyes to the island and to our family. My mother, of course, turned on the waterworks in her usual dramatic fashion. She's not happy with me for leaving and insists I don't need such a 'high-falutin' job, but appreciates what Chicago Waldorf - Skye's new high school - will do for her granddaughter.

Mom was the one who helped us get on our feet in the beginning, so having her blessing on this new leg of my journey was everything. I needed it. I couldn't leave without it. Had it not been for the full-time job at Kepner General while Skye stayed with her grandparents, there's no way I would have made it. My parents gave me a loan to buy the house we've now sold, and I've long since paid it back. If they didn't approve of where I'm headed, I probably wouldn't have left.

But we did leave. Skye understands, to a degree, that there always comes a time to move on. And that time was presented, more or less, to us. She received a scholarship for Waldorf and her orientation is the day after we move in. For us, everything is set in our new city in the Midwest. Well, new for her. Not so new for me.

Arriving in Chicago will unearth a lot of memories, I'm sure. Probably plenty that I'm in no way ready for. But I have to find a way to be, because I'm the backbone of our little family, and I know I'm doing what's best for the two of us.

I'll show Skye that Chicago is everything I've built it up to be with my stories and descriptions. I told her, since sailing on her birthday never happened, we'd find a way to do it in the Windy City. I'm not sure yet how I'll pull that off, but I made her a promise. Alex never came through with his, though I guess he never said he would.

He and I ended things on a strange, jilted note a few days before my departure. We both knew it was coming, but neither of us knew how to say it. He started as a close friend before we became whatever we were, so seeing him off stung a bit. He's a piece of home. A briny, salty piece that I don't plan on forgetting. He was good to me. He just wasn't enough.

The ferry ride is short compared to the flight, which lasts nearly 3 hours. Not as bad as it could be, but I'm wired as Skye sleeps peacefully beside me. With her head on my shoulder, I hope I'm making the right decision. Throughout her life, I've remained confident that I know what's best not only for her, but for us, and that feeling hasn't faltered. But I'm worried what, or rather - who, we might run into during our new adventure.

…

When we get to our apartment on Delaware Street in the Gold Coast of Chicago, it's almost midnight. Skye is dead on her feet as we make our way up the elevator to find our unit, and I'm happy to see that the new furniture along with all of our belongings has been delivered. That means, luckily, we won't have to sleep on the hardwood floor tonight.

I dig through our suitcases to find pajamas and Skye takes a shower before changing into hers, and I make up the master bed. We'll work on her room tomorrow, but for tonight I know she won't mind bunking with me.

When she comes out smelling like her shampoo, I pat the mattress beside where I'm sitting with my laptop. She smiles softly and crawls into bed, resting on the pillow while lying on her side, looking at me.

"Hi, baby," I say, stroking her hair.

She blinks slowly. "I miss home," she says.

"I know, me too," I say truthfully. Everything about Chicago - especially this neighborhood - is fast and loud. Nothing like our island was. Even now, at this late hour, traffic still roars on the street below us. It's not natural.

"You do?" she asks.

I nod, fingers still in her hair. "But this'll feel like home soon," I promise her. "You'll see."

"I hope so," she says. "You lived here with my dad, right?"

"Yes," I answer. "And went to college with him here, too."

"At UChicago."

"Uh-huh."

"Where is that?"

"South," I say. "If you want, I can show you sometime."

"Yeah," she says. "That would be cool." She pauses for a moment before asking, "When you guys lived here, did you have an apartment like this one?"

I let a small gust of air out from my nose. "No, not at all," I say. "Ours was very small. One bedroom that hardly counted as a bedroom at all. Tiny apartment, big rent." My throat constricts, thinking of how difficult things were back then. How much I worried about money, about everything. It's still, even now, a sore subject.

"Oh," she says. "But was it around here?"

"No," I say, then lean to kiss her head. "It's late, babe. Why don't you try and get some rest? We have orientation tomorrow, remember."

"Okay," she whispers, resigning as she closes her eyes. It only takes a few moments for her breathing to change as she drifts off; I knew she was exhausted. But in the way traveling wore her out, it amped me up. I know more than she does about where we are, or more importantly, who we're in the vicinity of.

With our daughter sleeping next to me, I debate Googling Jackson's name and finding his phone number to warn him that we're here. I'm not sure what the point would be, but it feels necessary. I don't know what good it would do, but I can't imagine running into him - or _her_ \- without warning. The thought alone scares the life out of me.

But what would I say on the phone? Would it be awful to call, springing something like this on him, after so many years of silence?

I remind myself that the phone works both ways. He could have called me, too, and he never did.

I stare at my iPhone that rests beside my legs, practically begging me to unlock it and type his name into a search engine. I can almost hear his voice through the speaker - I know he'd be confused, but what if he felt happy, too? Would I be happy to hear him, talk to him? I don't know what would run through my mind. Right now, simply picturing it, I feel like crying. I don't think I'm up for a phone conversation.

But I do pick up the phone and pull up Google. Maybe my worrying is for nothing, and he's not even in the city anymore. I tap the search bar and type in 'Jackson Avery Chicago', and what comes up makes me gasp aloud.

He's an attending surgeon at the University of Chicago Medicine. He is, in fact, still here. He works in plastics. There's his professional headshot, dressed in the white coat as he smiles brightly at the camera, right at me. I stare at the photo for a long time - 13 years treated him well. His face is fuller in a grown-up way, his facial hair is even and well-kept, and his eyes are shiny and bright. He looks like the picture of everything he wanted to be.

Looking at him makes my heart hurt. I see everything of Skye in his face. His smile, the shape of his eyes, his big ears. They're all hers. And assumedly, Clementine's as well.

I press the 'Images' tab and a full page loads. The first one is the headshot I just saw, and the next one floors me. It's a shot of Jackson and Clementine, probably from a few years ago, judging by the braces on my daughter's teeth. Skye had braces a couple years ago, too. She and Jackson are standing next to each other at some sort of expo - his arm around her, one hand capped on her shoulder to keep her close. They're smiling the exact same smile.

I'm staring at the face of my second daughter, the mirror image of the one lying next to me. There Clemmie stands with her father, two peas in a pod, or so it seems. I wish I knew more about her than what this photo is able to tell me - I want to know her favorite color, favorite singer, favorite food, what season she likes best.

I want Clemmie to know her sister, and I want Skye to know her.

I wonder what Jackson has told her about me. If it's as awful as what I told Skye - that he left us. I couldn't think of anything else, and I've felt guilty every day since letting that lie go. He probably came up with something so much more eloquent. He always had a soft way of delivering bad news. He was a gentle giant, and I loved that about him. I loved a lot of things about him.

Skye stirs and I quickly click out of the search, then erase my history. I can't be too careful. I'll figure out how to tell her when she's ready, and I'm confident that I'll know when that is. But that time is not right now.

Right now, I plug my phone in and lie down beside the daughter I can hold. I close my eyes, hoping to sleep, but all I can see is Jackson's face, frozen in time, smiling through the screen.

…

The next morning, Skye drags her feet as I try and get her out the door for orientation. Parents are required to come too, but I don't think Skye would have had it another way. Once we get to the school, she attaches herself to my side in a way she hasn't done since she was a toddler.

We find her homeroom class and receive a schedule from the office - she's taking drama, Greek geometry, classical history, human biology II, and gym.

"This sounds like a pretty good schedule," I say, leaning against a wall of lockers as we both look at the sheet of paper. "Whatcha think, Ky?"

"I guess," she says quietly, pressing herself into my shoulder.

Next, we go to pick up her gym clothes. Though I've never been to this building before, I lead the way to the gymnasium's main office and Skye, surprisingly, takes my hand. I can't remember the last time she did that with other kids her age around. I don't call attention to it, though. I simply squeeze her fingers and give her a small smile, pushing open the office door with my free hand.

"Hi there," I say. I wonder for a moment if I should get Skye to speak up and ask, but I can't force myself to do it. She's clearly in a good amount of distress, so I can take the wheel today. "I'm here for my daughter's gym uniform."

The woman behind the desk looks at me with confusion written all over her face. "Yes…" she says. "You've received them already."

I crinkle my eyebrows. "No, we didn't. We're here for orientation. This is her first year here. We were told to come to you."

She blinks quickly, lips pinched. She scrutinizes Skye like she thinks there's some sort of trick being played, but doesn't argue any further. "Sure," she says, then wheels her chair back. "Last name?"

"Kepner, Skye," I say.

She looks over her shoulder at Skye once again, which makes Skye look to me. I shrug my shoulders, just as confused as she is.

"Here you are," the secretary says, handing over a few plastic-wrapped shirts and shorts. "Have a nice day."

I thank the woman and walk out of the office, heading towards the band room where Skye will store her violin. She doesn't speak and stays close, not letting me out of her sight even when our hands break apart. I wonder if I should be worried. She never acted like this in Nantucket. She's always been a quiet, timid child, but never reclusive or entirely dependent. I hope she'll be okay here. I'll likely spend all of tomorrow worrying.

"Baby, you okay?" I ask once we've slipped her violin into an instrument locker.

"Yeah," she says distractedly, then starts biting her fingernails.

"No nails," I say, gently pulling her hand down. "Are you nervous?" She nods. "What about?"

"I don't know anyone here," she says, having trouble meeting my eyes.

"I know," I say. "But you'll make friends. You're so good at that."

"I'm not, really," Skye says.

"Yes, you are," I say, trying to pep her up. "Just watch. Everyone always loves new kids."

She looks at me like I'm crazy. "Mom, have you seen any movie, ever?"

"Oh, come on," I say, walking back out to the atrium. "Real life is nothing like the movies. Don't be silly. This year is gonna be awesome. Remember, you said that, too, back home?"

"That was before we were actually here," she says, surveying the mass of students milling about the area.

"Babe," I say, both hands on her shoulders. "I know it's scary. And intimidating. And a lot to take in. I'm nervous, too, for my first day. Being around a bunch of new people is a big situation. But we're Kepners. We can do anything."

"Maybe," Skye says.

"Oh, don't 'maybe' me," I say. Then, I nod towards a group of kids hovering around the sports sign-up sheets. "What if you went over to see what they're looking at? We talked about signing you up for a sport."

She shakes her head vehemently. "No, thanks," she says, gravitating closer to my side.

"Honey…" I say. "You gotta put yourself out there. That's how you're gonna make friends and have the best time as possible at this place."

"I'm good with just orchestra."

"I'm not asking, Ky," I say, a bit more sternly. "I want you to join a sport. If you don't like it after one season, you can be done. But I need you to try."

"Mama," she says, pleading.

"No," I say. "Go on. Go over there and see what there is to see."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I just can't," she says, turning away from the kids.

"They look perfectly nice," I say, then sigh. She won't budge. "How about if I go with you?" She nods and I give in. If that's the only way to get her the tiniest bit out of her shell, it's a compromise I'll make. With my arm around her shoulders, we walk to the sign-up sheets and I read off the sports listed. "Soccer, lacrosse, basketball, volleyball, tennis… anything sound good?"

"No."

I raise my eyebrows and continue. "Track and field, cross country, cricket… didn't even know that had that in the US. Huh. Um… croquet, seriously? Let's see. Bowling… anything?" She shakes her head again. "Okay, Skye. I'm gonna pick for you if you're not gonna do it." She doesn't protest, so I pick up a pen and write her name down on the basketball sheet. "Basketball," I say. "Tuesdays and Thursdays right after school. Perfect, because orchestra is on Wednesdays. Sound good?"

"I don't know."

"Alright, then," I say, patting her back. "Ready to go?"

…

That night, the two of us are sitting on the couch watching The Bachelor and eating pizza, having a last summer hurrah before her first day tomorrow. I'm not really paying attention to the show that we usually love because I'm too focused on Skye and how she might be feeling. I can tell she's not paying apt attention, either. She's barely touched the pizza, which is her favorite, and her eyes are glassy. Something is bothering her, that much is obvious, and I don't know if it's the same thing that's bothering me - but we need to get some things out in the open.

"KyKy," I say, pausing the TV.

Instantly, she turns her head. She sets her pizza down and looks at me with a wide-eyed expression that almost makes me cry. Right now, she is nothing like the 15-year-old I left back in Nantucket, but the introverted baby who was born right here in this city. And thinking of her that way makes me think of her sister, which makes me think of her father, which forces me to think of the truth.

"I wanna talk to you… about your dad," I say.

Her expression changes. A wall comes up and her eyes grow a little harder; I'm not sure why. She doesn't speak, though. She lets me continue.

"You know that he and I lived here while I was pregnant," I say. "And before. That we lived here together for a while."

"Yeah."

"I want you to know that he's not a bad man. At all."

"But he left us," she says.

I can't fault her for thinking that - how could I? That's the narrative I've fed her since she was old enough to notice that other kids had daddies and she didn't. This is my fault; Jackson's, too, but the way Skye feels is all on me.

"He…" I say, wondering how to break it to her. Suddenly, I feel more afraid than I ever have in my life. The relationship that Skye and I have is the most important thing in the world. If the truth shatters it, I don't know what will become of me. "He isn't a bad guy. He loved you, Ky, and he loved me. And I loved him so much, it was crazy."

"But he still left."

"Well, honey, I-"

"It's fine, mama," she says, standing up and taking her plate with her. "I know you don't like to talk about him. You don't have to. I'm gonna be fine, I'm just nervous about tomorrow. You… you don't have to do that."

"Ky," I say weakly.

"I'm kinda tired," she says, setting the plate in the sink. "I'm gonna go to bed, I think."

"Alright," I say, defeated. "Want me to come kiss you?"

"No," she says, and my chest hurts because of it. "I'll be okay."

**SKYE**

The only thing set up in my new room is my bed. I'm happy to have it, and at least it's not on the floor, but I miss how homey my old room was. It had pink walls with white trim and beaded curtains, and when I was younger I had a canopy bed. Sometimes, I still miss it. But I figured I was getting too old for it, so I asked Mom to have Uncle Jules take it apart. Right now, I wish I had it.

Everything I own is still in boxes that surround me. As I lie in bed dressed in familiar pajamas, absolutely nothing else is familiar. Not the smell of this place, not the sounds from outside, and definitely not the city as a whole. I don't like it here. It's too big, too loud, and it's not home.

I cover my face with both hands and feel my eyes get hot, then the tears start. I keep as quiet as possible, turning over to cry into my pillow instead of out in the open. I feel so alone in this place filled with millions of people, like I've never been smaller. I don't belong here.

But my mom says that we do. She says this is our next stepping stone, where we'll come across so many opportunities that we wouldn't have in Nantucket. I have to believe her, because what else is there to do? There's no other option.

She lived here with my dad in a different lifetime. That has to count for something. They liked it here, but she apparently didn't love it enough to stay. She moved to the island with my grandparents and uncle, so what does that say for how great this place is? That doesn't give it any extra brownie points, in my opinion. She already moved away once. What good will coming back do?

She wanted to talk about my dad earlier. I don't know why I stopped her, but I did. There was something in her voice and a heaviness to her eyes that I wasn't ready for. I can't help but wonder what she wanted to say, though. There's a lot about him that I want to know, but I've never asked.

What was the reason he left? Was it because I was hard to take care of? Did he meet me as a baby, or did he leave before I was born? Did he ever hold me? Are there pictures of the two of us together? Would he want to hear from me now, or does he pretend there's not a child out there who belongs to him? What does he do for work? Is he smart? Is he funny?

The biggest question that weighs on me is the most cliche of all, but I can't help it but wonder. The one that keeps me up some nights as I study the photo - the only photo of him that I have - is if he ever loved me. But then, I think, even if he did… it still wasn't enough to stay.

I sit up in bed and cradle my head in my hands, legs swinging off the bed. I can't stay in here alone. It's too loud outside and there are weird shadows in the corners; I'm having nightmares before I even close my eyes. Tomorrow, my life will change at this intimidating new school. This is too much to handle on my own, so I leave my bedroom and pad over to my mom's.

Her light is off but her door is open, so I walk carefully inside. She's contained to one half of the bed, like always. She claims she likes to stretch out over the whole thing, but whenever I've seen her asleep, she's always in a ball on the left side. It's just something funny about her.

"Mama?" I whisper, getting closer to the bed.

She wakes up right away. Usually, it doesn't take much. She rolls over and blinks sleepily, worriedly. "Ky, you okay?" she asks, reaching for me.

I shake my head no, lips turning down.

"Come here," Mom says, and I fall into her arms in the easy way I always have. She holds me, one hand on the back of my head and the other around my shoulders, and stays awake until I fall asleep.

…

The lowlight of the next morning includes Mom holding my hair back as I throw up all of my nerves into the trash can at our corner. We're on the way to catch an Uber to school, and my stomach has never felt like this in my life. I don't think I've ever thrown up from being nervous, but I guess I can now check that off my bucket list.

I clutch the sides of the black trash can and she rubs my back, hair still in one hand as she reaches for wet wipes with her free one. "Come on, babe," she says, helping me stand up straight again. She gives me a wipe for my hands and helps me with my face, making sure I'm presentable. "You're gonna be okay. I promise."

"I don't know about that."

"You _will_," she says. "It seems like a lot right now, but in a month you'll feel silly for being this worried." She squeezes my hand. "But I'm not saying you _are_ silly for being nervous. Not at all. First days are so nerve-wracking. I'm pretty anxious about mine, too."

"You are?"

She nods, then pulls me close to kiss my temple. "You're not the only one," she says. "And tonight, we'll go out for pizza. We'll find some hole-in-the-wall place and make it ours. Sound good?"

It does. It honestly does. I wish it was 5pm right now so we could go straight there instead of having to be tortured with not only school, but with basketball practice, too. "Yeah," I say.

"Good," she says. "Then it's a date."

We get in the car that takes us to Chicago Waldorf School. When it pulls up, I study everyone else and scrutinize my own outfit of jeans, a camisole, and a teal cardigan. Suddenly, it doesn't feel fashionable or new enough. The clothes aren't old, but they're not brand-new, either, and I feel like a slouch. My shoes have scuffs, and my gym shoes are even worse for wear. Everyone's hair lies perfectly, and my flyaways were being so difficult for Mom this morning. And I'm not wearing any makeup. It looks like all the high school girls are, and do so frequently.

"Mama," I say, frozen on the sidewalk as I observe everyone.

"You can do this," she says, reading my mind. "I'll let you go in on your own. You don't want me embarrassing you that bad."

I know she's right. I'd get a lot of weird stares if my mom walked me in on the first day of sophomore year. But still, I wish she'd come. It's childish, but it's still what I want. I don't say it, though. Because she does have a point.

"Okay," I peep.

"Text me at lunch, if you want," she says. "You got money?" I nod. "Gym clothes?" I nod again. "Basketball stuff?" A third time. "Okay," she says, then gives me a big hug and a kiss. I lean into her and don't care if the other kids see. I feel like she's going away to Timbuktu, not her new job downtown.

I tell myself to pull it together and stop being such a baby. It's not my first day of kindergarten. I've done this before. I'll be fine. The new school isn't going to kill me. I hope the kids inside it don't, either.

"I love you, birdie," Mom says, giving me one last kiss. Okay, now it's a little much.

"Love you, mama," I say, turning towards the school. I know she's still waiting, so just before I walk inside, I look over my shoulder and give her one last wave.

I'm on my own now.

…

The day passes without incident. I keep my head down - literally and figuratively. I don't speak unless I'm spoken to, which isn't _that_ out of the ordinary, but today it's worse than usual. Everyone seems to have known each other for years, and Mom was wrong. No one cares about the new kid. There's only one class where I even get introduced, and that's human biology II. I don't know why. No one even looked up.

Somehow, I'm invisible while simultaneously sticking out like a sore thumb. I never knew such a weird feeling could exist, but I experience it all day. And it sucks.

What I want more than anything is to have orchestra after school today, because at least that's something I know. You don't need to have friends to play music. I can be myself with my violin - my purest, true self. But today I don't have orchestra, I have stupid basketball. I hate my life.

I should have picked out the sport myself and gone with something easier, like croquet. At least then, I wouldn't have to change in a locker room full of laughing, shouting girls who get along like they've been best friends since birth. And judging by the small class sizes in this school, they probably have. I resent them for it. I don't have anyone, so knowing that everyone else has a whole crowd of people really stings. I'm not actively trying to make friends, so I don't know if I have the right to be so salty, but I don't care. It's awkward being the new kid. No one knows who I am. They don't know if I'm weird or cool, so why take a chance? I'm better off by myself, anyway.

When practice starts, I keep quiet. I go through the drills that the coach teaches us, but I mostly zone out. I don't register any of the other girls' names or faces. My body is present, but my mind isn't. Sometimes, that happens. Mom says I've always been a daydreamer and that I got it from her. Well, later when she asks me how basketball went and I tell her that I have no idea, she can blame herself.

Practice ends soon enough. It only goes for an hour. And then we're back in the locker room, showering and getting changed. It clears out fast, though, and pretty soon I find myself alone. I didn't think I was going that slow, but I guess I was. So, I don't bother hurrying now. I meander away from the showers and back to the locker I had claimed, putting my dirty clothes in a plastic grocery bag as I grab my backpack.

When I shut the locker, I hear the sound of another closing, too. I guess I'm not the only one here. My stomach jumps for reasons unknown to me; all I want is to avoid this person and the inevitable awkward exchange we'll have since we're the only two left, but I have to pass her to leave. So, I take a deep breath and turn the corner, only to run right into her - literally.

We bounce off of each other and I land hard on the floor, right on my butt. My stuff goes flying - my backpack, dirty clothes, and water bottle, and I'm left in a splayed, embarrassed pile.

"God, watch out!" the other girl says, collecting herself. Her back faces me as she picks up her things. "Walk much?"

"Sorry," I murmur, doing the same.

She sighs, which I can only hear and not see. I'm too busy being mortified and shoving my water bottle into my bag. But when I stand, the energy in the room has changed. She's silent, and her eyes are burning into me.

When I look up, I see why. I'm looking in a mirror.

I don't speak. I can't. All I do is stare at her. She looks exactly like me. The same hair - even the same style. Same eyes. Same mouth. Literally, the exact same face. We're the same height, with the same voice.

"Holy shit," she says, taking a tentative step closer. "Who are you? _What_ are you?"

I frown. "I'm a person," I say.

"Are you me?" she asks.

"No," I say, frowning deeper. "I'm _me_. Skye."

"Skye who?"

"Skye Kepner. Who are you?"

"Clementine," she says, still sizing me up. I'm doing the same with her. "Clementine Avery."

The last name rings a bell. I know who that is, at least I know who has that last name. But this doesn't make any sense. I have to be dreaming.

I pinch myself to make sure I'm awake, and she notices.

"I know," she says. "But I don't think we're asleep."

I swallow hard. "What's happening?" I ask. "You look just like me."

"_You_ look just like _me_."

I blink slowly, taking her in. She has pierced ears, I don't. She's wearing lipstick and eye makeup, which I've never learned how to do. Her clothes are stylish and look brand new. I feel dumpier than I did this morning.

"Do you have a twin?" I ask.

She shakes her head, but stops. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again as she asks, "Do you?"

"I didn't think so before."

Suddenly, she drops her backpack onto the bench and rifles through it. She finds what she's looking for and pulls it out, then presses it against her stomach to hide it from me. "Who's your mom?" she asks.

"Her name is April," I say.

Her eyes get glassy and well up with tears. "Who's your dad?" she asks.

I place my backpack inches away from hers and dig through it in the same way she had. I pull out the picture of Jackson that I take everywhere and hold it against my stomach in the way she holds her evidence.

"Show on three," I say.

"One."

"Two."

And we both say it. "Three."

Clementine extends her arm and holds up a picture of my mom, the mom I see every morning and every night. The one who cooks me breakfast and snuggles with me when I can't sleep. My TV buddy and confidante, the one who's always there for me. This stranger is holding up a picture and saying that April belongs to her, too.

But how can that be?

I hold up my picture, too. The photo of the man I've never met, but think about frequently. Clementine looks at him with immediately recognition, then touches the glossy finish of the paper. "That's my dad," she says. "Jackson Avery, that's my dad."

"That's my mom," I say.

Slowly, we lower the pictures and take each other for what we are.

Twins.


	7. Chapter 7

**CLEMENTINE**

"What the fuck?" I say, unable to think of anything else to fill the silence. "What… the fuck?"

I'm staring at a mirror image of myself. There are a few differences, but they're all minor. My sense of style is better. My ears are pierced. She has a birthmark on her collarbone that kind of looks like the state of Michigan. But everything else - down to our hairstyles - is exactly the same.

"Seriously, what is going on?" I say. I work up the courage to step closer to her and study her face. I've never been so creeped out in my life. But at the same time, I'm amazed. She looks_ just_ like me. I look just like her. And I never knew she existed? She's just been out there in the world, being my twin, this whole time? And I didn't know? "Did _you_ know?" I ask.

She shakes her head fiercely. She doesn't bother to try and hide the fact that she's begun to cry. I get the impression that she's a softie - it isn't hard to figure out. She lets the tears stream down her cheeks, doesn't even wipe them away. Jeez.

She's crying even though I should be the one feeling bad, really. She got the short end of the stick. Because however we got separated, I ended up with our only living parent. Who would do that to a pair of twins? My dad - _our_ dad, I guess - would never split us up intentionally. Something must have happened and Skye got lost in the system. I feel awful. I wonder if she knows that our mom is dead, or if she thinks Mom just left. I might have to be the one to break the news.

"So, who do you live with?" I ask, treading water carefully.

She blinks hard, forcing more tears. With a sniffle, she says, "My mom. Our… our mom."

I narrow my eyes and scrutinize this girl. Maybe she was adopted and calls her adoptive mother 'mom.' That would make sense. I don't want to undermine their relationship, because adoption is really cool. At least she _has_ a mom.

"No," I say gently. "She's dead. I'm sorry if… you didn't know."

Skye looks at me like I grew a third head and doesn't say anything for a long time. Like, a really long time. Then, when it's past the point of weird, she says, "No."

"What?" I say back. "Yeah. She died when she had me. When she had us, I guess." It makes more sense now. Delivering twins could not have been easy. I wonder if Skye knows that we essentially killed her. God, this is going to really suck to find all this out at once. I've been living with the heavy guilt for almost my whole life, though, so maybe it's lucky she never knew. Her adoptive mom is cool for that. My dad should take notes.

"No," Skye says again, more firmly. She's not playing around. "My mom is alive. She didn't die in childbirth. She was just fine. It went really fast. She always told me she basically just popped me - us - right out." She shakes her head. "She isn't dead."

My knees go so weak that I have to sit on the bench we're standing beside. The room is spinning and I can't catch my breath. She's not dead? She's _never_ been dead, and I never killed her? She was alive this whole time, raising Skye. Not raising me.

"I…" I stammer, trying to think of words that fit this situation. But no matter how hard I try, my mouth won't, or can't, form them. "I never…"

Something about Skye softens as she sits next to me, really close. And I don't mind it. Her hip presses against mine and we fit together just right. "I can show you a video, if you want," she says quietly.

All I can manage is a nod. The thought of my mom, alive and in motion, both scares and excites me more than I can say. I've only ever seen a handful of pictures. I've never heard her voice, her laugh, anything. I'm really overwhelmed, but this is something I need to see.

"Yeah."

She pulls out her phone and swipes through the camera roll, coming across a video file soon enough. She poises the phone between the two of us and presses play, and April - our mom - comes to life for me for the first time.

"Okay, ready?" Mom says. She's standing on a beach, there's only sand and water as far as the eye can see. The sun is setting in the background. It looks like a postcard.

Her voice is high and airy, but playful. Really playful. She has her fiery hair up in a bun that's coming apart at the seams, like she's been out in the wind for a while. The smile she's wearing is the same from all the photos Dad has shown me. It's the brightest thing I've ever seen.

"Yeah, go!" Skye says from behind the camera.

"Alright!" Mom shrieks, then leans forward to fall into some sort of cartwheel/roundoff type thing. She sticks the landing, hands in the air proudly, and laughs her head off. Skye joins, too, as she runs to meet her. Then, the video cuts off and I stare at the frame where it stopped. Mom's blurry face, mouth wide open as she laughs.

They're really happy. It doesn't take a genius to gather that. The two of them have an awesome life without me and Dad.

I reach and press the 'play' button again. Listen to her laugh again. Watch her smile and do her gymnastics move again. I wonder if she ever did stuff like that with my dad. If he made her laugh like that. If they were ever as happy as she is now, with Skye. Just Skye.

Watching her this gleeful, I wonder if she even misses me. Or thinks about me at all. It doesn't seem like it.

I watch the video a total of four times, then decide that's probably enough. Mostly because I'm about to start crying and I don't want to. I think Skye can sense it, though, because she turns to me and says softly, "I can send it to you, if you want."

I lift my head up and meet her eyes, my sister's eyes. They're genuine and sincere, and I wonder if it would be weird to give her a hug. I just met her. But we shared a womb. Inside the mom I never met. I can hug her, right? Probably. But still, I don't.

"Yeah, if you could," I say.

"Of course," she says, and waits for my number. I give it to her. She sends the video, along with a handful of others that I plan on saving for later.

"I don't have as much of him," I say. And when I say 'him,' we both know who I'm referencing. "But I can find something. Definitely. Pictures, at least. I don't have a lot of recent ones, but I'll try. When I get home, I'll look. And I'll send them."

"Okay," Skye says, then licks her lips. She blinks fast and her chest lifts as she braces herself for what she's about to say next. At least, that's how it seems. "Um… what's he like?" she asks.

I open my mouth to answer, but find I don't know what to say. What _is_ my dad like? I know he's nice, most of the time, but that's not what Skye wants to hear. That's boring. Everyone is 'nice.'

"He's tall," I begin, stating the obvious.

She smirks. "Mom is really short," she says. "We're taller than her."

_We_. For the first time in my life, I'm part of a 'we' that matters.

"Dad likes basketball," I say. "Which is why he made me join the team. Does Mom?"

Skye shrugs. "I don't think she cares. She just wanted me to join a sport so I don't turn into a hermit." I laugh. So, my sister is funny. Like Dad and me. And maybe Mom, too? "Mom's really affectionate," she says. "I don't know if you like that."

From Mom, I'm dying for it. I can't imagine what a hug from her might feel like, but I don't say that out loud. "Sometimes," I mutter.

"Is Dad like that?"

I think of a few nights ago, when he held my hand. How out-of-the-ordinary that was. When I was little, he used to hug me so much more. Kiss me, snuggle with me on the couch, lift me onto his shoulders. Why did all that stop? Did I _make_ it stop? Was it something that I did, how I acted?

"Not really," I say. "I guess he used to be."

"Oh," Skye says.

"He tells a lot of stupid-ass jokes," I say.

Skye smiles. "Mom _loves_ dumb jokes."

We lock eyes and just know. We don't need to say anything. We found something that links them, something that helps paint the picture of who Mom and Dad were before us. It's easy to imagine the two of them at a basketball game or something, per Dad's choice, laughing at his idiotic comments. Being featured on the kiss cam, maybe. I'd literally die of embarrassment if that happened now, but imagining it back then is like… a movie, or something.

Then, Skye's phone rings. I can still see the screen, and it fills up with a silly selfie of she and Mom, sticking out their tongues and flashing peace signs at the camera. With a quick glance at me, she turns the screen away and answers it. "Hi, Mama," she says.

I can't hear what Mom says on the other end, obviously, but the fact that Skye still calls her 'mama' sticks out. They're really, really close.

When she hangs up, she looks at me with tormented eyes, saying, "I have to go. She… she's outside." She pauses for a long moment, contemplating. It takes her a long time to think before she speaks again. "Why did you think she was dead?"

I pinch my lips together as my throat tightens. How can I tell her how shitty Dad was to me when Mom has been so awesome to her? Mom probably told Skye that Dad went off and won a Nobel Peace Prize or something and had to do a lifetime tour of the world, I don't know.

"Doesn't matter," I say. "You better go. She's waiting for you."

Skye picks up her backpack and passes her phone from hand to hand. "What do we do now?" she asks.

"I have no fucking clue," I say, voicing the truth. "But I'll text you when I get home."

She nods solidly, saying, "Okay. And tomorrow, we can see each other?"

"For sure."

"Okay," she says, walking slowly towards the door. Then, she stops and turns around, walking quickly back. In an instant, she wraps her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug, one that I find myself instinctively returning. I latch my arms around her waist and interlock my hands, hugging my twin sister for the very first time.

…

I take the bus home, needing time alone before walking inside and seeing Bree, or worse, my dad. Skye and I agreed that there's still a lot of stuff to figure out before we break the news or go asking questions, but that doesn't mean I can put my anger on the back burner.

He texts asking where I am just a few minutes before I walk in. I don't bother answering, but I throw the front door open with force when I get to our floor.

"Well, hello to you, too," Dad says, sitting on the couch nearest to the foyer. "You always know how to make an entrance."

I don't say anything. Bree is beside him, clicking through the channels. She doesn't even look over, and I'm glad.

"We were thinking about ordering a pizza. Don't feel like cooking. Does that sound good?" Dad asks. "How was your first day?"

I shrug, my back facing him. I kick my shoes off on the mat and hang my backpack on its hook.

"Have you gone mute?" he asks. "Something bothering you?"

"Just leave me alone," I mutter.

"What?" he asks, growing concerned. The couch cushions make a sound as he shifts and eventually walks over to join me near the door. "Clemmie, is everything alright?"

He touches my shoulder and I jolt him off - roughly. "Don't touch me," I growl.

He told me that my mom was dead. He let me believe that by being born, I killed her. For 15 years, I've carried the fact that my mom is gone because of me. And now, knowing how false that is, I can't look at him the same. He lied to me. He lied in so many ways.

How can you separate twins? My sister has been out there this whole time, and he never told me. There was never a time where it even seemed like he _wanted_ to tell me. He's been talking about sharing more with each other, but he's kept half my identity a secret for my entire life. He is so fake.

"Did something happen at school?" he asks.

Little does he know.

I don't bother answering. I storm off, away from the entryway and through the hall towards my room, but he's right on my heels. "Clemmie!" he calls. "Slow down."

I stand with one hand on my doorknob, staring him in the face. My eyes burn, but I don't cry. I'll never cry in front of him again. "Fuck you, Jackson," I spit, gripping so hard that my fingers shake.

"_Excuse_ me?" he sputters, baffled.

"Sorry," I say. "Fuck you, Mr. Avery. I never wanna see you again."

Then, I slam the door in his face. I make sure to lock it, too.

"Clementine Isabel!" he shouts. "Open this door right now."

"I said, fuck off!" I shout through tears. I throw myself onto my bed, facedown, and sob for all I'm worth. I've never wanted my mom so bad in my life, and knowing she's somewhere in this city, maybe wanting me too, is a newfound feeling I've yet to get used to. "Leave me alone!"

A long time passes before his footsteps lead away from my room, giving up so easily. Like always. That's one of the things I hate most about him. He never pushes like other parents do. He could easily unlock my door, but he won't. He doesn't even try.

I lie there for a while before turning over to stare at the ceiling, watching the blades of my fan go round and round. After a bit, I pull out my phone and watch the video of Mom doing a cartwheel on the beach again, then flip to the photos that Skye sent me.

The first one is of Mom standing in front of a brick building. She has one hand under the sign by the door, showing off the fact that is says 'The Whaling Museum.' I don't know what significance that holds, but she sure looks happy. She's wearing a summer skirt and sunglasses, hair down and wavy. Her skin is sunkissed and covered in freckles, and her smile is joyful and sweet.

The next one is a picture of a picture, and it looks much older. This has to be Mom before either of us were born. Mom… and Dad, too. He's never shown me pictures of the two of them together, but that's definitely what this is. They're both in formalwear and it's dark outside. Mom is wearing a navy blue dress and Dad is in some cheap-looking tux. Prom, maybe? He's got his arm around her waist and she's laughing, head thrown back and everything. He isn't looking at the camera, either; he's looking at her like she's the most amazing thing he's ever seen.

The last one is Mom sitting cross-legged on a wooden floor, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair is wet, stringy around her shoulders, and she has a chubby baby in her lap. One I can only assume is Skye. Mom is holding her tiny hands up for the camera, head leaned to the side as she smiles next to Skye's face. All Skye's wearing is a diaper, and the house looks pretty bare. I have no idea what the context is, but all I can think about is the fact that that baby could've been _me_.

I save the pictures and the video, then tap the keyboard to start typing.

**SENT, 7:03pm- **thanks for the pics. Its so weird seeing her. What r u guys doing right now?

**RECEIVED, 7:05pm- **im in my room. Not talking to her. She doesnt know why but shes worried. I feel bad for not feeling bad. Wht r u doing?

**SENT, 7:05pm- **same, in my room. But i dont feel bad at all. We gotta do smth about this

**JACKSON**

The next day, during my lunch break, I'm jogging through Grant Park with Bree. I took up running after I started working longer hours at the hospital because it helps with my stamina and clears my head, but today the latter isn't working.

"What is _up_ with Clemmie?" I ask, weaving through a crowd of tourists.

"What do you mean?" Bree says. "She's acting the same as she always does."

"No," I say. "She's worse. Something is going on."

We break apart to split a lamppost, then come together again. "I don't know, honey," she says. "I think she's getting to the age where she knows who has the power and who doesn't."

I shoot her a quick look, then turn my head straight again. "Are you saying I'm the one without power?"

"Well, yeah."

I frown. "I don't think that's necessarily true."

"She makes the rules around the house," Bree says. "She always has. You bend to her every will."

"I don't see it like that."

"Well, of course you don't, sweetie. I'm not saying you're doing a bad job or that you ever have. But she's out of control, and she needs to realize that she isn't the boss."

"Yeah…" I say. "But the thing is, I really thought I got through to her the other night. You didn't see the look on her face. She really heard me that night."

"Well, clearly it was a one-night thing," she says regretfully.

I let a puff of air through my nose. "Well, one-night things can turn into long-term things sometimes," I say. "We know that."

"We were never a one-night thing," she argues.

"No?"

"No."

"Okay," I concede, though I tend to disagree. "Well, I don't think you're giving Clemmie enough credit."

"I think you're giving her too much. You always give and give with her, and she never actually earns it. Discipline is all about _earning_ what you get."

"I guess," I say. "Yes. You're right. But I want us to have an equal relationship. I don't want her to feel lesser."

"But she's the child," Bree insists. "And she's 15. You _need_ to be the parent. Otherwise, she'll fly off the rails. Honey, you've said it yourself."

"'The rails' are an objective thing," I say.

"What happens when she sneaks out again to see that boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?" I snap.

"Don't play dumb. You and I both know she's seeing a boy. There's no other reason to sneak out at 2am."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, then," I say. "I'll talk to her about it."

"What, before or after she screams at you and slams the door in your face?"

"Okay, that's not fair," I say, letting my eyes roam.

"I think you should consider what my parents did for me," she says. "Boarding school. There are some great ones in the country that Clementine would _love_."

I open my mouth to refute her idea when I see something that catches my eye. Amongst the throngs of people surrounding The Bean, there's a flash of red hair that sticks out in the sea of blonde, black and brunette. The red hair is in a neat, high ponytail with curled tendrils at the end, faced away from me. I can only see down to the birdlike shoulders, but everything about the look is so familiar that I lose track of the time, place, and what I'm doing, and end up crashing right into a vendor's cart.

"Jesus, Jackson!" Bree yells as I go careening to the ground. I land hard on my side, scraping my knee, palm, and cheek. I just lie there for a moment, soaking up the embarrassment of at least a hundred eyes on me, and let out a deep breath.

"Hey, man! Watch where you're going! You okay?" the vendor asks, extending an arm to help me up.

I get to my feet gingerly, offering him a distracted, "Yeah." What I'm more worried about is finding that red-haired head, the one that forced me to the ground. But it's nowhere to be seen. "Thanks."

"Jackson, good God!" Bree says, pulling me to the side after I help the vendor straighten up as much as I can. "You're bleeding."

I bat her hands away, still subtly studying the crowd. "I'm fine," I say, then scratch my cheek. My hand comes back stained with blood - a good amount of it, too. "Ah, shit."

"Yeah, 'shit' is right," she agrees. "Let's go."

We get home after I repeatedly refuse her offers to take me to the hospital. It's already a stretch to call the rest of the day off, but I don't need medical professionals for topical wounds. I'm a surgeon myself; they can't do anything there that I can't do here. So, we end up at the apartment, in the bathroom, with Bree sitting on the lip of the tub as I clean up my face.

"If you'd just let me do it," she presses.

"I am fine," I say tersely, for at least the tenth time. "I do this every day."

"Yes, but not to yourself."

"I know myself best. It's a win/win."

She sighs, fed up, as I disinfect the cut on my face and cover it with a bandage. Next comes my knee, and my palm goes last because it's the hardest to do. Bree doesn't offer to help anymore, thank god, because I really can do this on my own. Working left-handed isn't a big deal, at least in this situation. In regard to surgery, I might be out for a couple days.

"Your daughter will be home soon," she notes, glancing at the clock. "Did you think about what I said? About boarding school?"

"I didn't have much time," I say. "Too busy crashing into innocent bystanders."

She makes a miffed sound. "I'm just saying, it'd be worth your time. I went for four years and came back better because of it."

"Clemmie goes to Chicago Waldorf School," I say, cleaning grit out from the slice on my palm. "There's no place better."

"You'd be surprised," Bree says, then chews her cheek as she watches me work. "What happened earlier, anyway? It's not like you to fall."

I keep my eyes centered on my hand, stomach jumping. I was worried she'd ask that. I have nothing to hide, though. Nothing at all. "Got distracted, I guess," I say.

"By what?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't have gotten distracted by it."

She sighs and says, "I'm going to pretend that made sense." Then, there comes the sound of the front door opening and light footsteps coming in. Bree raises her eyebrows and blinks, nodding in my direction. "Think about it," she says. "And talk to her."

"Yeah," I say, putting no weight behind the word.

In reality, what I want is to give Clemmie time. That's what she's always needed - time and space. With both those things, she'll eventually come around and want to talk. She seemed excited the other night when I suggested we share more with each other. But until we're back at that point, I expect a few more days - possibly even a week - of silence. She's stubborn, like me. And like her mother.

So, I continue my work in the bathroom as Bree walks out. I look up as Clementine's footsteps get closer, if only to watch her walk by. I doubt she'll give me eye contact, but I can hope. I didn't see her this morning; I left long before she was awake, so it'll be nice to see her face, even if it's frowning.

She comes around the corner with her backpack high on her shoulders, almost tentatively. She peers into the bathroom, wide eyes blinking slowly, then smiles the most gorgeous smile when she sees me.

"Daddy!" she sings, and that word alone nearly knocks me off the stool I'm on. I can't _remember_ the last time she called me 'daddy.' No less, on a day like today, one following such a horrible yesterday.

"Hey, sweetheart," I say, keeping at my hand.

She hurries over, dropping her backpack near the door. In a flash, her arms are around my neck as she wraps me up in a big hug, one that I have no choice but to reciprocate. Not like I would consider turning it down, but I'm wary of my hand all the same. I smile to myself, pat her back with my good palm, and chuckle as she pulls away.

"What happened?" she asks, sounding very worried. "You're all cut up."

"I was jogging during lunch," I say. "And I fell, like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," she says, then hugs me again. _Again_.

"Thanks, honey." I look at her suspiciously, wondering if she wants something or got into huge trouble at school. That can't be it, though, right? The principal would have called. But still, she could be in a bind with money and think buttering me up is the way to go. "How are you feeling… after last night?" I ask.

"Fine," she says, leaning against the counter. Her eyes haven't left my face, not once, since she came in. "I feel great. Sorry about all that I said."

"I… it's fine," I say. "Thank you for apologizing." I pause for a moment, frowning, wondering how to proceed. God, I really am a shit parent. Shouldn't this stuff come as second nature to me by now? "Do you wanna talk about what was bothering you? From yesterday, I mean."

She shrugs. "I just had a bad day. First days suck. And I took it out on you. I'm really sorry, daddy."

"Sure," I say. "I get it."

Then, Bree appears in the doorway and Clementine turns around. "Hi, Bree," she says formally.

"Hey, Clementine."

"Daddy fell and hurt himself today," she says. Then, she turns back to me as if she got an idea. "Here, let me see. Hold on." She reaches into the medicine cabinet and pulls out a small jar of coconut oil, to which she twists open the lid and grabs some with her finger, smoothing it onto my open wounds. "There," she says. "That'll help them heal."

I watch her with wonder. "Where did you learn that?" I ask.

Her face flushes, if I'm not mistaken. "I don't know," she says. "I don't remember. But it works."

"You know…" I say, wondering if I should say what's coming next with Bree in such close proximity. "You know who else used to put coconut oil on scrapes?"

Clementine blinks at me. Her eyes are strangely open, almost as if she's perpetuating them to hold such an expression.

"Your mom," I say, filling the silence.

"Oh," she says, twisting the lid back on. "Really? That's weird. I never knew."

"She did," I say. "And it did always help. You must've just known."

"Yeah, must've," she says quickly, clearly uncomfortable talking about her mother. I can't blame her; I get that way, too. I'm not the best with emotions, admittedly.

"So, you'll let the kid help and not me?" Bree says. It's clear she's trying to sound lighthearted, but it's not quite working. "I see how it is."

Clemmie looks over with her eyebrows lowered, on the defense. "I'm trained in first aide," she says.

"Oh, really, Girl Scout?" I say, joking around. "Since when?"

She quickly flips her head back around. "Oh," she says, then fumbles before laughing. "I mean, I saw a YouTube video. And I learned a lot from it."

"I don't think that counts as training, babe," Bree says.

Clemmie turns her back on Bree and faces me as I stand up. "Can we order a pizza?" she asks.

I meet Bree's eyes over my daughter's head, though I can't read them. "I… sure," I say. "I don't see why not."

"Yay!" she says, then grabs her bag. "I'm gonna change. I'll be right back!"

...

I ignore Bree's obvious stare as I order pizza online, then get out plates and cups for when it arrives. I know she wanted me to talk to Clementine about her behavior last night, if not about the boarding school possibility. And she's right. I should lay down the law while things are good. But that's the thing. Tonight, they are _so_ good, and I'm worried that bringing out the bad cop will ruin everything. And I want to soak it in while I can get it.

When I walk into the living room from the kitchen, Clementine is sitting in the middle of the floor with a photo album open in front of her, leafing through. I can't remember the last time she cared about those dusty books, but I can't help but smile seeing her there in pajamas she hasn't worn in ages. They might be the only ones clean, but they're adorable. Blue pants with a cloud pattern, and a fluffy, white sweatshirt.

When she sees me, she grins. "Daddy, come sit with me," she says, patting the rug beside her.

"Alright," I say, pleased by the invitation.

Then, Bree walks in. She looks at the two of us on the floor and sighs, just loud enough for me to notice. "I think I'm gonna head out," she says. "Got some stuff to take care of at my place. You two enjoy your pizza."

"Yeah, we will!" Clemmie says enthusiastically, waving as well. "Bye, Bree. Thanks!"

Bree opens her mouth, but closes it soon after. I give her a perfunctory smile and she heads out the door, leaving me alone with my bubbly daughter as we go through old pictures.

"How old were you here?" she asks, pointing to a photo of me in dress slacks and a button-down shirt. I'm slouched on a park bench, arms crossed, trying to frown. It isn't working, though; a smile sneaks in at the corners.

"About 20," I say.

"What were you doing?" she says.

"I had a speech class I had to dress up for," I say, remembering the day clearly. "I… um, your mom took that picture."

"I know." 

"You know?"

She backtracks. "I mean, I just figured," she says. "If you were in college, and stuff… yeah."

"Yeah," I say.

She looks up at me, away from the photo. "Were you guys together all the time?"

I nod slowly, nervous to walk into this territory. Discussing April with Clementine is a slippery slope, and I always say the wrong thing. I mean, for Christ's sake, I told her that her mother is dead. You can't get much more wrong than that.

"We were together a lot, yeah."

"Did you think you were gonna marry her?"

I pause for a long moment, genuinely contemplating that question. "I mean… yeah," I answer. "I think we meant to. But we never got around to it."

"Why not?" she says.

"I don't know," I say, chewing my lip.

"Do you wish you had? Married Mama?"

I narrow my eyes and don't blink for a long time. Her face is redder than I've ever seen it, and I can't place why. Something is definitely off about her. "Mama, huh?" I say. "Never heard you call her that before."

"Slipped out," she mumbles. "I heard it on some show."

"You can call her whatever you want, Clemmie," I say. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad."

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," I say, forcing a smile.

"Well, I know you don't like to talk about her," she says. I stay quiet, because she's not done. "Is it because she makes you sad?"

I nod and say, "Yes."

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the insides of her knees. "What if she wasn't dead?" she asks.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. That is not a place I want to go tonight, or ever. "Honey, she-"

"I know," she says quickly. "But if she wasn't, would you want to find her?"

"I don't know. I can't answer that."

"Well, do you ever miss her?"

I look Clemmie dead in the eyes and neither of us falter. Finally, I'm the one who breaks. "Yes, honey, I do," I say. "I miss your mom every day, all the time. But the fact of the matter is, missing someone doesn't change the past."

In the next beat, she opens her mouth to say something else, but the sound of the doorbell cuts her off.

…

After we're full of pizza and ice cream, it's almost 11pm and Clementine, for the first time since elementary school, wants me to tuck her in.

"Daddy," she says, lying there on her silk pillow with a clean face.

"Yes, Clemmie."

"What's your favorite color?"

I begin to tell her that she's being silly, she knows what my favorite color is. But then I wonder… does she? Have I ever told my daughter what my favorite color is? Do I even have one? I must. Everyone does.

"Um… I don't know. Blue, maybe," I say. "No. Red."

I don't know where the last-minute amendment came from. I choose not to think about it.

"How about your favorite movie?"

"_Friday Night Lights _is awesome. Can't deny it."

"Do you remember what I was like when I was a baby?"

"Clemmie, it's late," I say. "What's with the third degree?"

"I don't know," she says. "I'm just curious. Was I hard to take care of?"

I take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Sometimes, yes," I say. "But all babies can be."

"But was I _extra_ hard?"

"Honey," I say, trying to be firm but kind. "You were a perfectly wonderful baby, just like you're a perfectly wonderful teenager. But I'm tired. I've had a long day. Fell and got this…" I point to my bandaged face. "And I'm ready to call it a day. Is that alright with you?"

"Wait," she says, a bit desperately - like we don't see each other every single day. These are questions she could have asked at any other time. But along that same vein, I realized I could have offered the conversation as well. She isn't the one to blame. "Tomorrow, can we do something fun? Just me and you, after school?"

I smile, the corner of my lips pulling up. "Sure," I say. "Alright. Goodnight."

I get up only to have her singsong voice call me back. "Daddy…" she insists, and I turn around to see that her arms are extended as she wordlessly asks for a hug.

"Oh," I say, caught off guard. I lean down and hug my daughter, something that should not feel as foreign as it does, and she gives me a kiss on the cheek before I stand up straight again.

She actually _kisses_ my _cheek_. Forget about elementary school, I don't know if there's been a time where she's _ever_ done that.

"Night, Clemmie," I say, eyebrows furrowing as I wonder - what the hell is going on with my daughter?


	8. Chapter 8

**APRIL**

Sitting in the school parking lot, waiting for Skye to finish with orchestra, I'm alone with my thoughts. They're dangerous to be left alone with, that's for sure, and even though they're mine, I never know what's waiting around each corner.

Like right now, for example. I can't get mine and Jackson's first time out of my head. Why? I have no idea. I do my best not to think about that man in general. But that's been hard lately, seeing as we moved to his city.

But it's really not _his_ city. It's everyone's city. Just because he never left doesn't mean he owns it. Still, though, I have to admit it does feel a bit like that. Like I'm intruding on something that belongs to him and can never be mine again, not even a little.

Lately, small instances bring him to the forefront of my mind. He loved spicy food, and so does Skye. I can't stand it, so whenever she dumps sriracha over everything, his face pops up behind my eyes. His face wearing a big, satisfied smile. _That's my girl_, he would probably say. Because yes, she is his girl. But at this point, she's much more mine than she is his.

She's cuddly like me. Gentle like me. Soft-spoken like me. Clumsy like me. Family-oriented like me. Smart, driven, capable, and compassionate like me.

But she's tall like him. Goofy like him. Brilliant like him. Loyal like him. Stubborn, genuine, optimistic, and joyful like him.

As always when the comparisons float through my conscious, I tell myself that she - and Clementine - are two beautiful combinations of what Jackson and I both have to offer. That is, when I allow myself to think about Clementine Isabel, the daughter I left behind. And that's exactly how I see it. Jackson didn't take her. He didn't choose her. I _left her_ behind.

A daughter should never be without her mother. That's not to discount a father's role, because there's a very important place for him. Of course there is. But a mother/daughter relationship is a whole different animal. Clementine is 15 now, just like my Skye. Did Jackson have the sex talk with her, or did he leave it to her school? Who buys her the pads and tampons she needs? Who teaches her about boys? Who gives her advice about dramatic teenagers? Has she yet experienced her first heartbreak?

These thoughts filter through my head, weaving between images of mine and Jackson's first sexual tryst. And that's exactly what it was - a tryst, just as mischievous and sneaky as the word sounds. The summer before we started college, right in the thick of it. There hadn't been a summer that hot in years, at least not that I could remember. Whenever it was just the two of us together, I'd only wear a bikini top and shorts. It's all I could bear. Around my parents, it would never fly, but it was Jackson's favorite outfit.

_"I never want you to wear anything else but this, ever," he said, as we lay in the open hatch of his old SUV. He bought it himself, with no help from his mom, so he was proud. That thing took us everywhere. _

_"I won't," I said, sprawled out beside him. _

_He kissed my dewy shoulders, my neck, the sweaty dip of my clavicle. He ran his teeth over my nipples through the thin fabric of my black bikini top, and my body jolted in response. _

_My mom always drilled into me how important it was to wait until marriage. But it seemed so silly then, knowing that Jackson would be the man I married. I was so sure of that. Never more confident of anything in my life. So why should we wait? Three months had been long enough already, from the night we first met at prom. If we waited any longer, I might explode from sexual frustration. I knew he felt the same. _

_So, I told him without words that I wanted him and I wanted him bad. I planted my hands on either side of his head and kissed him hard, the kind of kiss that communicated way more than anything verbal could. And he read my mind. While still kissing me (it wasn't like we could stop - we never could) he maneuvered his body on top of mine and I liked the weight of it. I told myself that if we never moved from this position, it would be alright with me. _

_I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer with a powerful thrust. He smiled against my mouth, our teeth clicking as he did, and kissed my chin. "Slow down," he said lightly. "You're so mini, I don't wanna crush you." _

_And that's how 'Mini' was born. There, in the back of his car, right before I lost my virginity to him. His was already gone, but he said it was like it wasn't. Sex with me was a brand new thing. And I loved him when he said that, because he meant it. I could see in his eyes that he did. _

_"You won't crush me," I said. "You feel good." _

_"Yeah?" he breathed, lips ghosting over mine. "Well, so do you." _

_I bled all over the blanket beneath us that night. It felt like more than it actually was, and I was afraid he'd be scared or even disgusted, but he was neither. All he did was flip it over and lay me back down, wrapping me up in his arms to kiss parts of my body he might not have reached before. _

With a jolt, I yank myself back to the present and look at the clock. Orchestra gets done at 5pm, and it's nearly 5:30. I don't know what Skye is doing in there, but I pull out my phone to call her - if only to distract from how red my face has gotten recalling the memory I just did.

Her phone rings and rings, which it never does. She usually answers right away. But eventually, I do hear her voice. "Hi, mama," she says.

"Baby. Where are you?" I ask. "I've been in the parking lot since quarter 'til."

"Oh!" she says. "Oh… um…" I narrow my eyes, confused by her confusion. "I… um… I wasn't feeling very good after school, so I skipped orchestra. I went home. I'm laying down now. I'm really sorry, mama, I forgot to tell you."

I sigh loud enough for her to hear. I had a long day - still in the first week at the new job - and left early with the intent to pick her up. Had I known she was heading home on her own, I could've put in an extra hour. "Alright, Skye," I say, irritated.

"I'm sorry," she offers again.

"It's fine," I say. "Just… please tell me next time, okay? How did you get home, anyway?"

"I walked."

"How did you know the way?" I ask, baffled. That girl barely knows left from right, let alone cardinal directions or how to navigate downtown Chicago.

"Google Maps," she says.

I raise my eyebrows and decide to give it up. It's over now, and all I can do is leave. "Okay, sure," I say. "I'm going, then. I'll see you in a few."

…

When I bluster inside the apartment, I'm already talking as I set down my things. "Honey," I call out. "I'm not trying to be your overbearing mom. I swear, I'm not. I know you're 15 now, not a little kid anymore, and you haven't been for a while. But sweetie," I say, kicking off my pumps. "This city is nothing like Nantucket. You're not gonna know every single person there is to know. And it's definitely bigger than 15 miles wide, I'll tell you that."

I hang up my purse, put my keys on the hook and let my hair down from its bun. I need a makeup wipe more than anything; I want this gunk off my eyes. I never used to get dolled up on the island, and it feels unnatural. Unnatural, but necessary for my new position. I like the fact that I turn heads, though that was never my intention at The Whaling Museum. It's not my goal here, either, but it doesn't hurt.

"KyKy, are you listening?" I ask, finally turning around.

Last night, she was incorrigible and nearly unrecognizable. She got in the car in a funk after basketball and refused to tell me the reason for her attitude. I was stuck, not knowing how to pull her out of the mood. Usually, Skye is all smiles and optimism. But yesterday and even this morning, she was a crank. Rude and mean, giving me a cold shoulder that I've never experienced before.

When my gaze lands on her face as she stands in the entryway, she's wearing a look I can't quite decode. Her eyes are big, lips parted just slightly, and she's breathing fast. Too fast.

"Honey, are you alright?" I ask. The memory of her telling me she wasn't feeling well after school comes back. I walk over and press the back of my hand to her forehead, but she's fine - if not a little clammy.

"I'm… good," she says, never tearing her eyes from my face.

"Are you sure?" I ask, cupping her jaw in both hands. It's a relief to touch her. Yesterday, she wouldn't let me near her.

"Yeah," she says, then throws herself against me.

She's taller than I am, so she almost knocks me over with the amount of force that she hugs me with. She twines her arms around my neck, tight as vices, and buries her face in my hair. I've always known Skye to be clingy when she's feeling under the weather, but this is a whole new level. I don't question it, though, and I wait for her to break the hug before I do. Clearly, she needs me. I don't think school is going quite as I anticipated.

I was always an easy mingler. I don't know if I ever fit seamlessly into any one group, but I drifted between a handful - that is, until I found Jackson. Then, he was all I needed.

I don't think it's so simple for Skye, though, and I've slowly begun to learn that. I always pictured her as a girl with plenty of friends, but that image is slowly changing. I won't go so far as to call her a loner, but the nerves on her first day of school were monstrous. Those don't come from a person who's sure of herself, and we need to talk about that. There's plenty I can do to help, I'm sure of it.

"Baby…" I say, rubbing her back. She still hasn't let go. I kiss the side of her head and note that she smells different - not in a bad way, but still, innately different. I wonder if she showered at the school after practice yesterday and now the scent of generic-brand soap lingers. "You don't seem alright."

Finally, she releases me and stands up straight again, looking directly into my eyes like she's searching for something. "I am," she says, then smiles. That smile I love, the one that ignites her entire face.

I let my eyes roam over her features as I tuck her hair behind her ears. As I do, I notice something brand new - earrings. I frown, leaning in, and hold her earlobe between two fingers. They're not clip-ons, like the ones she wore in kindergarten. These are real.

"You pierced your ears," I say, shocked.

Skye is not the type to do anything without asking first. She knows I don't say no very often, and when I do, I have a good reason. I wouldn't have denied her earrings - I've even encouraged them, at times. I'm not angry that she got her ears pierced, I'm hurt that she thought she had to hide it from me.

"I…" she stammers, wide eyes growing even wider. Instinctively, she reaches up and touches the large earrings - larger than the ones she should probably be wearing as the piercings are still new. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, Ky," I say. "I just wanna know what's going on with you. I think you and I need to sit down and have a talk." Fright comes to her face and blanches her expression. "You're not in trouble," I say. "But we need to be on the same page. I want to know what's going on inside your head. Being open is our best policy, right?"

She nods. It seems like the most she can do. Skye has never minded our 'family meetings' before. They're never centered around punishment. I find that it's good to convene as our lives veer off in separate directions, especially as she gets older. I never want to lose the common ground I have with my daughter; it's the most important thing in the world to me.

"Okay," I say, then hold her face as I kiss her forehead. "I'll order in. Your favorite - Thai? That sound good?"

I meet her eyes, expecting some sort of celebration. I've never been too crazy about Thai, but Skye adores it. So, sometimes I compromise and get it special just so she can enjoy it. But tonight, she looks lackluster at best. I have no idea what's going on with this girl.

"Sure," she says, grinning weakly.

"Are you not hungry?" I ask. Instead of pressing a hand to her forehead, I slip one under her shirt and feel her back - it's a more honest method. Every mother knows that.

But even though Skye should be used to it, she jumps - flinching away like I've scalded her. The fact that she jumps makes me jump, too, and we meet each other's eyes with a strange, bewildered expression.

"You don't have a fever," I say, removing my hand slowly.

"I ate a big lunch," she says.

"Do you not want me to order in?" I ask.

"No, no, I want it," she insists, seeming more like Skye. "I'm just gonna go do some homework, then I'll come back out for dinner?"

"Sure…" I say, giving her hand a squeeze. As she turns away, I pull her back gently. "Skye," I say.

"Yeah?" She chews her lower lip, eyes darting every which way. Why in the world is she so nervous? I come to the conclusion that she must have done something, gotten herself into hot water at school, and now she can't get out of it. I hope it's an issue that she'll air later, during our meeting.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" I ask. It's an insecure question, one I've never felt the need to ask before. I never had to ask because I knew the answer - that yes, she would tell me. She'd always tell me.

She smiles, one that travels to the corner of her eyes and crinkles them. It's such a genuine smile, so real that I want to kiss her. But I don't, because I'm afraid she'll flinch away again. That hurt me more than I ever imagined something so small could.

"Yeah, mom," she says.

"Okay," I say.

I only realize after she's gone how rare it is for her to call me 'mom,' instead of 'mama.'

**CLEMENTINE**

Flustered, I pace in Skye's room until I've basically worn a path in the plush, white carpet. Everything about this place is new and not set up yet, which makes it feel unfinished. She's done the best she could in the few days they've been here, but it's not much. I don't let myself help, though. It's not my room.

She has a few pictures up, some framed and some simply taped on her headboard. I don't bother looking at the professional, glossy shots - they're too posed and I've seen too many in my lifetime. They're boring. Instead, I sit cross-legged on her bed and face the ones she tacked up by her head. In such an important spot, they must be special.

The one right in the middle is of her and Mom, of course. Seeing it, I feel a twinge of jealousy that hasn't left my gut since I saw the video of Mom on the beach, doing flips or whatever. What kind of mom still does flips? Imagining Dad in such a scenario almost makes me laugh. He would _never_, not in a million years.

Thinking that, I wonder if her absence is what made him stop being fun. Did he _used_ to be fun? With her, was he silly? Did he act like an idiot in public just to make her laugh? Did he encourage her antics, just because?

I let my head fall because I just don't know. All I know is that Skye has this wide array of pictures on her headboard and they're full of family - I'm guessing. The middle one is obviously her and Mom when Skye was little. She's on Mom's shoulders on a boardwalk, summer sun shining down on both of their heads. Mom's neck is craned as she looks up at the little one on her shoulders, smiling like she's never loved someone so much. Skye is so, so lucky. She doesn't even know, and that's what frustrates me the most. She isn't aware of how lucky she is because this great life is all she's ever known.

There's another picture where Skye is wrapped up in the arms of some guy with red hair who has to be Mom's brother. Our uncle, then. I didn't even know I _had_ an uncle, no less one who's so white. Like literally, white. If his skin weren't so freckly, it would be see-through. He's making a dumb face with his eyes pinched closed, mouth wide open with his tongue out. Skye, a brace-face at the time, is laughing so hard she can barely stand up. He looks like a lot of fun.

Then there's four of them, Mom, Skye, the uncle, and who I can only assume is our grandparents. Jesus, all this red hair reminds me of Chucky, but I'll never say that out loud. They're at some sort of reception, dressed fancy. Maybe a birthday party, but I'm not sure. If anyone's, it's Skye's, because she's the one sitting down with everyone surrounding her. Mom has a hand on her shoulder, and our uncle has one arm strewn around Mom. The two who I think are my grandma and grandpa stand in the back - Grandpa is wearing a loose smile and Grandma is the most uptight person I've never seen - and that's saying a lot, since I'm only looking at a photo. She's the only one I find myself not too keen on meeting.

The last picture tacked up is an old one; I can tell because the colors are faded. And it's of Mom and Dad. Whoever took the picture is standing a good distance away, capturing the image in low light, the setting sun. Mom and Dad aren't looking at the camera, but at each other with their foreheads pressed together, smiling like maniacs. Dad is holding Mom up with her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, and they look so obsessed with each other that I kind of want to throw up.

But at the same time, I want nothing more than to take the picture and shove it into my bag so I can keep it. But I won't. I can't start out the relationship with my twin sister by stealing from her. That's low, even for me.

Even though I'm envious of the familial relationships Skye seems to have, I can't help but notice something. There's not a single picture of her with a friend. Not one. Is the reason she and Mom are so close is because Skye has no friends her own age? Or maybe, the reason Skye has no friends is _because_ she and Mom are so tight? I'd trade all my friends for Mom in a heartbeat, so maybe Skye has the right idea. But still, we're 15. And all she has is family pictures? No dumbass selfies? No peace signs, no pretending to be sexy when you really just look stupid, no Snapchat filters? It's a little weird. I'm coming to realize that my sister is a loner, and I don't know what to make of that, because it's never been me. My room is full of idiotic shots of me with old friends from LP. Shots that, if he saw them, Dad would probably hate. But he doesn't come in my room that often, and when he does, it's not like he's studying the walls.

I turn around in her bed and sigh, leaning against the headboard covered in pictures. I pull out my phone to deal with the task at hand - the freaking family meeting Mom sprung on me.

**SENT- SKYE SOS! WTF! **

**RECEIVED- What? Whats going on**

**SENT- Mom thinks somethings up with me aka you and is calling a family meeting. OVER THAI FOOD WHICH I HATE! Im freaking out. She knows somethings up. **

**RECEIVED- no she doesnt. Calm down. Mama loves to call family meetings. We have one like once a week. And i aka YOU love thai food, so you have to eat it**

**SENT- jesus christ. you sure she doesnt know?**

**RECEIVED- yes im sure. If she thought something was up, she'd say. She doesnt keep secrets**

**SENT- yeah except the BIGGEST SECRET EVER?**

**RECEIVED- ok good point. idk. Just show up and eat the food and see whats up. Thats all i can tell you**

**SENT- what ru and dad doing?**

**RECEIVED- eating pizza and looking at pictures. He fell on his face today apparently in the park so hes all banged up. But we're having a good time. How is it seeing mom? Its cool that shes not dead right?**

**SENT- thats an understatement**

"KyKy!" Mom calls, and it takes me a moment before I realize she's addressing me. "Food's here, babe!"

**SENT- ttyl. Nasty ass food is here and i gotta go pretend i like it. Text me later**

I leave Skye's room, which I'm glad to do because I was starting to feel like an imposter in there, and look towards the dining room table - only to find it empty.

"Down here," I hear Mom say, then find her on the living room floor with our dinner spread around her in containers.

The smell alone is almost too much for me, but I have to grin and bear it. Grin and bear not only the food, but the meeting, too. Even if this were pizza, I don't think my stomach would be able to handle it. I'm so nervous over what she's about to say. And I'm nervous being around her, too. How do I act around the mom I thought was dead for my whole life? I'm worried she won't like me if I act like myself. I'm supposed to act like Skye, who she loves more than life. But I honestly have no clue how to act like gentle, angelic Skye, either.

"Thought we could have a living room picnic, like we used to," she says, waving me over with a smile. "You wanna?"

"Sure," I say, sitting across from her on a throw pillow. There's like, a million of them in this room alone. Mom is a little obsessed. Dad _hates_ them. Our couch at home is bare.

She picks up a pair of chopsticks and hands them over, and I balk. "Here, baby," she says, positioning her own in her fingers. She makes it look so easy, so natural. I've never used chopsticks in my life. Me and Dad always use our hands when we eat sushi, but I don't think I can use my hands for these noodles without looking like a caveman.

"Um… can I use a fork?" I ask. I consider trying the chopsticks, but I'd probably give myself away instantly.

"You don't have to ask permission," she says, smirking. "I don't care."

"Alright," I say, then get up to find the silverware drawer. Luckily, they just moved into this place. So if Skye didn't know where it was, it wouldn't be _that_ weird. I only have to open and close a few before I find it.

I go sit back down and pick at the noodles as Mom goes to town. "So," she begins, meeting my eyes. Hers are a perfect mixture of green and brown, an embodiment of hazel. They're not muddy or anything, though, like some hazel eyes can be. They're like a clear pond on a summer day. If she thinks it's weird how intently I'm looking at them, she doesn't draw attention to it. "I want to start off by saying that I know you must have some resentment…"

My body freezes and I break out in a cold sweat. She knows. She so totally knows, and Skye was dead wrong with what she said before. Forget eating this Thai food, or any food. I'm going to blow chunks all over this nice, new rug.

"Over moving here," she finishes.

All the color comes back to my face. She can't keep doing this to me.

"And I get that. I really, really do. It was a hard decision to make, I've told you that. But I don't want to be the one telling you how to feel, or telling you how _you're _feeling. I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I know you're a teenager, and I can't expect you to share every single little detail, but I don't want you to bottle things up. That's never been our way, Ky, and I don't want it to start now."

This kind of conversation makes me uncomfortable. I know it shouldn't, because this is my _mom_, the one I've been dying to see for years and years, but it does. I'm not used to a parent being so transparent. Dad and I never talk like this. I don't know how to respond. We're not fighting and I'm not mad, but for some reason, I feel defensive. Even though this isn't even my argument to have. Mom thinks I'm Skye. I have way more issues than Skye could even dream of having. Mom wouldn't know where to begin with me. Dad sure doesn't.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?" she says hopefully. She reaches out and squeezes my knee, then takes my hand. "Oh, come here," she says, then sets her food down. She crawls over and embraces me tight, rocking back and forth like I'm little. I don't mind it, I think I like it, but I don't know how to reciprocate. I guess affection is something you have to be taught, and I'm not good at it. "My baby," she says, petting my hair. "I love you so much, you know that?"

"I love you, too," I say. And it's true. I do love her. But I honestly don't know if she'd be saying all this nice stuff if she actually knew who I was. She loves Skye, that much is clear, but I have a feeling she wouldn't feel the same about me. I can be hard to deal with. I have an attitude, Dad always says that. I like to do things my way. I think Mom would get tired of all that. She'd want Skye back before a week was up.

"I guess that wasn't so much of a meeting as it was me talking your ear off," she says, moving back to where she was sitting. Then, she notices that I'm not eating. "You not hungry?" she asks.

"I guess not," I say. In reality, my stomach is eating itself, but I can't stand the smell of this food. My nerves went away and they've been replaced with something close to guilt, or uncertainty, or something else weird. I'm not really sure. But whatever it is doesn't overpower the hunger anymore.

"You really didn't feel good today, huh?" she says.

It was my fault that I missed orchestra. I forgot that Skye had it. But it was probably for the best, being that the last time I picked up a musical instrument was in second grade, and it was the recorder.

"No," I say.

"I'm sorry, baby," she says, then finishes her noodles.

I wonder if she and Dad ever had picnics on the ground. I wonder what kind of stuff they did, the trouble they got into. Because I know they did. I had to get the gene from one of them, though I'm not sure which one it was.

"Mom," I say. "Do we have any home videos?"

She sets the cardboard container down and looks at me quizzically. "I think so," she says. "But I'm not sure where. With all this stuff in boxes… I don't know, sweetie."

"Oh," I say. "Okay."

"There might be some on the Cloud, though," she says, lighting up with the idea. "Let's check." She turns on the Apple TV and goes through her files, sifting through thousands of photos before we get to any videos. "Here," she says, tossing me the remote. "You look. I gotta use the bathroom. Be right back."

I scroll through faster than she was and come across a thumbnail showcasing a face I recognize instantly. Dad. A way younger Dad, but it's definitely him. I click on the video and it comes to life in front of me - the first sound I hear is Mom's chipmunk-sounding laugh. He's got her riled up about something.

I see her come into the frame, wearing just an orange bra and jeans. Then, I hear Dad's voice. "Now coming down the runway is stunning, beautiful, sexy as hell… April Kepner," he says. "Wearing a bra from high school and jeans from Goodwill. Ooh, look at that strut."

Mom does a runway walk, flipping her hair while attempting to smolder. Honestly, it's so embarrassing to see this, but at the same time it's like these two people aren't my parents at all. They're like, teenagers. They're so young. And they're having so much fun.

"Show us the ass, baby," Dad says. I blush. He's so annoying.

Mom turns around and pops her butt, shooting a fake-surprised face at the camera. I laugh a little bit, then hear her voice in real life.

"Weirdest thing happened today. I was gonna tell you. I was eating lunch by The Bean, and I heard some huge commotion. I never actually saw what happened, but I heard that a guy ran right into-" She stops, seeing what's on the TV screen. "Oh… honey, not this one."

But she makes no move to stop the clip and neither do I. On the video, Dad has turned the camera towards himself as he makes commentary on whatever fashion move she's doing now. "Do a spin," he says. "Wait. I have an idea. That bra has gotta come off."

"Jackie!" Mom in the video says.

"Come on, Mini, don't be a prude."

"Alright, enough," real-life Mom says. She snatches the remote and shuts the TV off completely, the screen going black. "Sorry, honey, but…" She shakes her head roughly and dislodges her hair from behind her ears. "No. Just… not that one."

"Sorry," I mumble.

"No need!" she says much too brightly. Then, she bends down and begins to pick up our dinner stuff. "I'm sorry you weren't hungry for dinner," she says. "Maybe bed early tonight? That way, you'll feel all rested and refreshed for tomorrow."

"Sure," I say, getting up from the floor.

"Here, one sec," she says, pausing by the sink. "I'll give you a hug kiss-"

"It's okay," I say, shrugging her off before she can get halfway across the room. "You don't wanna get sick. Night, mom."

"Oh," she says, crestfallen. I feel like shit for making her react like that, but it's a little bit like redemption. I don't know what for, but something. Everything. "Night, babe."

I get ready for bed and lie on Skye's unfamiliar mattress for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling fan. Before long, Mom goes to bed, too, but I can hear her on the phone. She must think I'm already asleep, because she's not being discreet whatsoever.

"I don't know if moving here was a great idea," I hear her say. Her voice is a little muffled, but not bad. I can make out every word, just not what the person on the other end says - whoever that may be. "No, I'm fine. I mean Ky."

A pause. I rest my hands behind my head and let out a long breath. I guess I don't really want to hear this conversation, but I _need _to hear it. The thing is, I'm sure she would tell me all these things she's telling the person on the phone, if I'd just ask. But I can't. I'm sure Skye would, but I can't.

"She's not acting like herself. So much quieter than normal, like she's keeping something from me. And she went and got her ears pierced, Jules! Without telling me!"

Jules? Who is that? I don't know any of Mom's friends from here or back on Nantucket, where she and Skye came from. I don't even know Dad's friends, though, so that's not saying a lot.

"I know. I know. I told myself that, too. But she's still Skye. And it's like she's become a different person overnight."

I let out a stray chuckle. Little does she know, she hit the nail on the head. It's pretty ironic, actually.

"I know, time. Time, time, time. And yes, that's what I'm going to give her. I'm just worried." A pause. "Yes… I had the phase, too, when… yeah. But I still had a few years on her."

I can guess pretty well what she's alluding to. She went through a rebellious phase when she and Dad met? I bet that's right. I can't imagine what kind of stuff they got into. I bet they were wild. Wild and stupid. I gleaned that much from the twenty seconds of video I saw earlier.

"Okay," she sighs. "Yeah. I'll call tomorrow, maybe. Text her, will you? See if she's okay. Yeah. Love you, too."

Then, there's silence. I try to fall asleep, but I toss and turn all night. Knowing how close Mom is tempts me, but I can't make myself go to her. Something inside her knows that I'm not Skye, and she doesn't like me. With my luck, she'd turn me away.

…

At school the next day, I find Skye before homeroom.

"I have an idea," she says.

"I wanna switch back," I say at exactly the same time.

She shoots me a strange look. She wasn't expecting that. Honestly, I wasn't, either. I thought she'd be the one begging to go home and I'd want to stay forever. But that isn't the case.

"You… don't like Mama?" she asks. "I know she can be a little much at first, but she means well. Really, she does."

I know what she means. This morning, Mom tried to kiss me goodbye at least five times. The last time Dad kissed me, I'm pretty sure I was a baby. It's not that I didn't like it, per se, but I don't know how to take it. It's weird. It makes me feel broken or inadequate, like I'm missing a part of being human that everyone else has.

"No, I like her," I say. "But… she knows something's up. She doesn't like me."

Skye snorts. "I promise, she likes you. She likes everybody."

I shake my head. "I just feel weird."

"Oh… okay," Skye says.

"Do you like being with Dad?" I ask. I feel it's only right to ask.

"Yeah," she says, brightening. "We were gonna do something today after school, but if you really wanna go home…"

"I do," I say. "I'm sorry."

She studies me, giving me the same look that Mom gave me last night. I'm a little tired of it. It's weird, but I want to go back to going unnoticed at Dad's. He and Bree don't give a shit, which is what I'm used to.

"He was gonna take you out?" I ask. Am I the only one around here who no one likes?

"It's okay," she says. "You can go. You guys will have fun."

"Doubtful," I mutter, but she misses it.

"You wanna hear my idea?" she asks, all perky. She and Mom really are just alike. It's almost scary. With her hands braced on the straps of her bag, bouncing on the balls of her feet, Skye is Mom's twin - not mine.

"Sure," I say.

"There's a Welcome Back Banquet coming up this weekend," she says. "Saturday night. We gotta get them there."

I furrow my eyebrows and look at her like she's crazy. "What?" I say.

"They need to be around each other again," she says. "Dad obviously misses Mom. It's like, written all over his face and I just spent one day with him. You have to know what I'm talking about."

I pretend that I do. I guess I really don't, though. He hates talking about her with me, so I avoid her like the plague.

But I also have something to add.

"I accidentally came across this video of them last night," I say. "When they were younger. They were laughing, and they did seem happy. But Mom wanted me to turn it off."

"Yeah, that's how Mom gets," Skye says. "She thinks that pushing the memories away will actually erase them. I don't get it."

"Dad, too," I say. That's one thing they have in common - besides identical children.

"So, what do you think?" she presses. "I can definitely get Mom there. I'll say I wanna make friends, or something."

"Yeah, I think she thinks you're standing on the ledge," I say. "She was on the phone with someone named Jules last night, talking about you. Me. Us."

"Ugh, she called Uncle Jules?" Skye whines, then realizes I'm in the dark. "Oh. Julian is her brother. Our uncle. They're really close. She thinks I don't know how much she talks to him about me, but I do."

"Yeah, she doesn't exactly know how to keep her voice down."

"Right?!" Skye laughs. "So? Can you get Dad there?"

"I can try," I say, warming up to the idea. "But he'll probably want to bring Bree."

"Ugh," Skye says, upper lip raised. "Her."

"Yeah, I know," I say. "But isn't it good enough that he's there?"

"Yeah," Skye says. "When he sees Mom, he'll probably forget all about Bree. Mom can make that happen. She has this weird spell over him. He's totally all in with her."

"I got the vibe that Mom would still like, risk it all for Dad," I say, remembering her face when she saw his in the video. Stricken with something I can't name. Maybe true love. Maybe all they need is to see each other in person again, and everything will fall into place. Our family of four will be reunited, the puzzle completed. This could end up being perfect.

"She really would," Skye says. "And Dad for Mom, right?"

"Definitely," I say. "I'll get him there."

"And I'll get _her_ there," Skye says. "And we're going, too, right?"

I bump her shoulder with mine and say, "Duh. Like we're gonna miss this."


	9. Chapter 9

**SKYE**

Today at basketball practice, I actually peel my eyes off the floor, which is a major development. I lift my head when we leave the locker room and walk with my sister, which is something I still can't believe I'm doing.

"Hey," this girl says. I think her name is Halle. "Are guys twins?"

"Yep!" I say proudly, flashing a big smile. Clementine nods, but she's not into it like I am. I don't know why. This is a crazy, cool thing. Stuff like finding your long-lost twin doesn't happen in real life, especially not to someone like _me_.

"Whoa, that's crazy," another girl says. "I literally didn't even notice on Tuesday."

"Neither did we," Clemmie murmurs, but I'm the only one who hears.

The fact that I'm a twin seems to win me some cool points with the team. They even pass me the ball - more than when Coach tells them to. It's so exciting that I can barely get the smile off my face. I'm so caught up in the positives of everything that, at least for the time being, I've forgotten all the negatives.

But Clementine seems immersed in the negatives more than anything else. I know I was born with a naturally sunny disposition, sometimes to a fault - and I get that from Mom. But I think Clementine is taking it one step too far with her morose behavior. How can someone be so sullen after finding out their mom isn't actually dead? No less after spending a whole evening with her? I don't get it. She's making things a lot more complicated than they need to be. I just don't exactly know what to say to her. She might be my sister, but she's essentially still a stranger.

Back in the locker room, we're the only two left after everyone changes and leaves. Our lockers are right next to each other, something that I made happen before practice started this afternoon.

"You gotta get your ears pierced," Clementine says, without precursor.

I touch the soft skin of my earlobes. "No way," I say, shaking my head.

She looks at me with perturbed alarm. "Yes," she says. "Mom noticed last night. So, now you have to."

"No!" I say, indignant. "I've literally said for years and years that I don't want them pierced. I'm not gonna do it."

Clementine sighs. "Why?"

"I don't want to take care of them. What if they get infected?"

"You're not 5. They're not gonna get infected," she says.

"I'm not doing it," I say. I can be stubborn when I want to be.

"Well, what is Mom gonna think then?" Clementine says.

"I don't know," I say, stripping off my sweaty t-shirt and throwing it into my backpack. "She has to find out eventually, right?"

"Yeah, but not tonight. It's not the right time."

"I know. But… I mean…"

"She's gonna think it's weird. She notices _everything_."

"I'm aware," I say. "But it'll be fine. I'll think of something." I take my hair out of the high ponytail it had been in and shake it out. "So, what did you guys do last night? How was the Thai?" I giggle. It was nice of Mom to order that, because I know she doesn't love it. Little did she know, Clementine doesn't either. They totally could've gone with something else. "And the family meeting? How'd that go?"

My sister shrugs. "It was fine," she says. "It was barely a meeting. She just talked at me."

"Didn't you have anything to say?" I ask.

She shakes her head and shrugs again. "Not really," she says.

"Well, what else did you do?" I press. I'm being just like Mom. Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, I'll realize it. But it's hard to stop. Uncle Jules _always_ gets on my case about it. In a fun way, of course.

"Not much," Clementine says, keeping her answers short. She won't meet my eyes, either, and I don't know why. She confuses me to no end. I have no idea what to say, no clue how to connect. Shouldn't it be instant? We're twins, after all.

"Did you watch a movie?"

"Like, three seconds of her and Dad," she mutters.

I raise my eyebrows so high they almost touch the ceiling. "Her and _Dad_?" I ask. "How?"

"I asked to see home videos," Clementine says. "I found it while she was in the bathroom. Also…" Her eyes brighten like something just came to her. "I'm pretty sure Mom and Dad were in the same park yesterday. You said Dad fell and biffed it? Mom was talking about some guy who ate shit. She didn't see him, but... yeah."

"No _way_!" I shriek. "That's too weird. Oh, my god, this is totally meant to be."

"I mean… maybe."

"But what was the video like?" I ask, bringing the conversation back around.

"It was… cute," she says. "They were young. A little older than us, but not much. Maybe like 19 or 20? And Mom was wearing like, a bra and jeans and strutting around like a model."

"Oh, jeez."

"Yeah," she snorts. "Dad was into it. But Mom made me turn it off."

"Yeah, probably 'cause they were about to freaking bang," I say, eyes wide.

"God, don't say 'bang,'" Clemmie says, fighting a smirk.

"Well, they probably were."

"Dad did tell her to take off the bra. He's a slut."

I cover my mouth to hide how big I'm smiling. It's so funny to hear her talk about Dad like that. Like, it's _Dad_. The guy I hung out with last night. And _Mom_. "I feel like they…" I was about to say 'banged' again, but I'll think of a different word. For my sister's sake. "Had _sex_ a lot," I say.

She cringes. "Ew. Why would you say that, you psycho?"

I laugh. "Because! That's the reason Mom's parents disowned her in the first place. When she got together with Dad and they moved into the same apartment, my grandparents like, hated her. They didn't talk for a long time. Not even when I… we were born. They're big on the whole virginity thing. They're strict like that."

"Bible thumpers."

"Kinda," I say, feeling a little defensive. "They're actually really nice, but they did _not_ want Mom and Dad living together. 'Cause they thought Mom would get pregnant… and… well, yeah."

"Well, yeah, is right," Clemmie says. "Ouch."

"I think they really love each other, though," I say.

"Love, present tense?" she asks. "Or loved?"

"Love," I insist. "What, you don't think so?"

"I want to think so," she says. "But it's been a really long time."

"Time doesn't matter when you're in love," I say, fully believing it. "Fairytales are real sometimes."

"Except when they're not. Like when you split up a pair of twins and forget to tell them the other exists." She glowers. "I mean, aren't you pissed as hell about that?"

"I mean… yeah," I say. "I am. But shouldn't we make the best of what we have instead of being mad over what we lost?"

"But we lost so much," she says.

She's right. I know she is. But it's in my nature to see the bright side of things, no matter how dim they once were. "I know," I say softly, then offer her a smile. "But we found each other. And we're gonna fix everything. Bring Mom and Dad back to how they used to be."

She smiles back. Weaker and more watery than mine, but it's there. "I just hope they don't get any ideas for videos," she says, and we walk out of the locker room together.

…

Clementine and I leave from different exits because she's right, tonight isn't the right time to break the news. Realistically, I didn't think I'd be back with Mom tonight, I still expected to be with Dad. I kind of wanted to hang out with him more. He was going to surprise me with some fun activity after basketball, and I was looking forward to it. I liked spending time around him. He's funny in a way where he doesn't need to try, in an understated way.

I thought Clementine would be just as happy with Mom as I was with Dad, but that wasn't the case. At least, it didn't seem like it on the surface. I'm not very good at reading her yet, but I got the vibe that she wasn't crazy about Mom. I guess being around her is a lot to handle at first, especially if Mom thought Clementine was me and smothered her in the same amount of attention. Not many people can handle that, but I like it. Well, usually I do. When I'm not ticked at her for keeping half my life a secret like I am right now. And like I was two nights ago, when I treated her in a way I've literally never treated her before. I still kind of feel bad about that, though my sister would say that I had every right to act in the way I did.

It's hard to keep my frustration afloat when I see her face, though. That's the thing about Mom. She's always so freaking happy, so her face makes _me_ so freaking happy. It's a blessing and a curse. Plus I missed her. I don't spend time away from her very often, so it feels like it's been a whole year. But of course, she doesn't know that.

I open the passenger's side door and slide in, leaning over habitually so she can kiss my cheek, and she follows through. It's nice to be back in the routine I know. "Hi, cutie," she says, holding my chin. "How was your day? You feeling better?" I nod with a smile and she returns it. "Good. You seem good. I missed you today!"

"Missed you," I say, leaning into her. Clementine would probably be disappointed in me, how I bend to Mom's will so easily. But it doesn't feel like giving in. I just love her. Is that a crime? It's so much work to be mad and stay mad. I wish I could just talk to Mom about all this and air it out. I would feel so much better doing that. But my sister said that I can't. Not yet, at least.

She starts talking as she shifts the car into gear. "How was b-ball?" she asks, trying to sound cool.

My lips pinch together in an amused grin. "Good," I say. "I touched the ball today, like a lot."

"That's great!" she says. "Did you make any baskets?"

"A few."

She looks at me proudly. She's seriously beaming over a few practice baskets that Coach didn't even care about, which is why she's the absolute best. She can make anyone feel good about anything. "I knew you had it in you," she says, reaching for my hand. I gladly give it over. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, mama."

She kisses my knuckles repeatedly, keeping my hand as she drives. And even though I'm way too old for her to fawn over me like she does, I like it. I love how special she makes me feel, and I don't care how childish that makes me sound.

"We have Thai leftovers," she says. "Does it sound better tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, and my stomach rumbles on cue.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she says, then reaches to tuck my hair behind my ear at a stoplight. As she does, the motion of her hand stutters until it stops completely, fingers still in my hair. "Where are your earrings?" she asks, then amends her statement. "Skye. Where are your piercings?"

I grit my teeth. Crap. Crap, crap, crap, Clementine was right. I totally forgot about that little detail, otherwise I wouldn't have let her mess around by my head. I have to think fast. Even though I'm a terrible liar, I got in some practice yesterday with Dad. I have to keep this afloat somehow.

"Um…" I say, swallowing hard. I glance over and she tries to keep her eyes on me, but she still has to drive, so it's not easy. I'm grateful she has something else to keep her attention while I struggle for words. Then, I break. I figure it's the best way out. "I'm sorry, mama. I never got them pierced. They were fake the whole time. I don't know why I lied. I'm sorry." I hang my head and try to sell the whole thing, nerves jittering.

She's quiet for a long beat, but I don't lift up. Then, I hear her sigh. "Skye…" she says, both hands on the wheel. "Please, talk to me. You've been acting so different lately."

"I know, I'm sorry-"

"It's not like you to lie," she says. "And over something so silly. Why, honey? What was the point? Just to pull one over on me, get a rise out of me, what?"

"I don't know," I say, really grasping for straws now. "I don't know. I didn't mean it in a malicious way." I study her profile, the pursed line of her lips, the steady set of her jaw. She means business. I don't like seeing her like this, so tough. Usually, when it comes to me, she's the softest. But not right now. "Haven't you ever lied about something?" I ask.

It's a very leading question. Something inside me had to ask, had to put it out there like that. If I didn't take the risk right then, I don't think I ever would have.

"Skye Morgan," she says, and I can tell she's surprised. "This is not about me. This about the way you've been acting since we've moved."

I rest an elbow on the armrest. I really want her to answer the question, but I don't want to seem disrespectful. It's a very thin line I'm walking. "I know," I say. "I know I haven't been acting like me. I don't mean to take it out on you. Really, I don't. I just… I'm going through some stuff."

"What stuff?" she asks.

I shrug one shoulder, a very Clementine-like move. I recognize that now. "Just stuff," I say. "I can't really put it into words. It's hard. Just, like, school stuff. I promise I won't lie again. I'm sorry." I look at her, ready to try again. "But… have you?" I ask. "Ever lied?"

With a different tone and an apology, the energy in the car is different. This time, she's actually thinking about the question, turning it over in her mind. As she answers, she twists the steering wheel in her hands and watches the road intently, never looking my way. "If I ever did," she says. "It would be to protect someone I love." She adds the next part as an afterthought: "Someone I loved very much."

I don't say anything in response. I don't need to. I leave her words hanging in the air where they float around our heads like dust motes - dust motes that I have a hard time making sense of. Sometimes, Mom gets cryptic like that. Doesn't bother explaining herself and I don't have the gall to ask her to.

"I wondered why you changed your mind," she finally says. "You've always been so adamant on not getting them pierced."

I smile a little. "Yeah," I say. "I'm still adamant."

"Good," she says. "I like that about you. I always have."

"Even when I was a baby and wanted to pee everywhere but in the toilet?"

It's a story I've heard many times. From not only Mom, but Uncle Jules, too. They had a crazy time trying to potty-train me. "Oh, Lord Jesus," Mom says. "No. Not then."

We both laugh and I lean against the headrest, looking at her as she maneuvers the thick traffic downtown. "Mama," I say. "The school is having this Welcome Back Banquet thing on Saturday. I was really hoping we could go… you know, so I could maybe meet some people and get to know them outside of school. And I feel like dressing up."

Her eyebrows lift. "Yeah?" she says. "Saturday, you said?'

"Yeah."

"I don't think I have any plans," she says. "That sounds really fun. We should go." She looks at me with an excited expression. "And it gives us a great excuse to go shopping."

I don't know how Clementine had such a bad time last night. Even among her mistakes, Mom is seriously the best.

**JACKSON**

To surprise Clemmie, I got home early from work so I could be waiting at the house when she gets back from school. Just me, no Bree, waiting on the couch with a smile. For the first time in a long while, I'm looking forward to spending quality time with my daughter.

Last night was a breath of fresh air. She was Clemmie, but lighter. She was actually happy, which is something I haven't experienced in what feels like forever. I hadn't realized how much I missed her without the burden of anger resting on her shoulders. It had gotten to the point where it was a pet grudge she couldn't let go of, and it was almost like she didn't want to. It had become a part of her, but not a part I liked to see. She's too young for darkness like that.

So, it was refreshing to see her acting like a happy-go-lucky teenager, where her biggest worries had to do with school and the basketball team. I'm excited for today; I planned for us to do something that we never have before, and I think she'll like it.

My stomach jumps when I hear the lock click - actually jumps. Mixing with the excitement, though, comes guilt. It creeps in when my back is turned. How come I'm not always this pumped when Clemmie comes home? Admittedly, sometimes I dread her walking through that door because I know drama will follow. What kind of outlook is that for a father to have?

I sigh, ashamed at my mistakes - because there's been a lot of them. I hope that, with this turnaround from her, I can start trying to improve things around here. I just need a little help.

I'm already smiling when she comes through the door and throws her backpack down. She doesn't look up like I expected, her head stays lowered as she kicks her shoes off and lets out a long breath, one that deflates her shoulders and shrinks her about two sizes. She doesn't speak, so I decide to go first.

"Hey, Clems," I say. Still, her head doesn't rise. A pit appears in my stomach, one that I know well. "How was school?"

"Sucky."

Shit. I recognize that tone. That 'leave me alone, dad' tone is one I'm all too familiar with. But I tell myself that this time, I need to stay determined. I can make this work. Even if I have to force it, we will have a good time tonight.

"I'm sorry about that," I say. "But I think I can make it better. You wanna go do something fun with your old man?"

"I don't know."

I'm at a loss. She was so ready yesterday; she had been the one to ask. And now, she couldn't care less? I don't get it. I don't get _her_.

"I was thinking we could go roller-skating," I say, trying to entice her.

She takes a deep breath and looks over with an expression that says she's so, so done with me. "I don't know how."

"I know," I say, standing. "I'm gonna teach you."

She raises her eyebrows so her forehead crinkles. "I'm not a little kid, dad. I don't want you to teach me."

I intertwine my fingers and crack my knuckles, a nervous habit. I don't know why I get nervous around her. I have to stand my ground. I have to keep the confidence I had before she walked in that door. "Well, okay," I say. "Then I'll stand next to you while you fall. Help you up, if you want."

"No, thanks."

Then, I grow desperate. "Come on, Clemmie," I say. "You wanted to hang out yesterday. What happened?"

"I don't know," she mutters. "Guess the aliens gave me back."

"Clemmie," I say again. "Whatever it is, I wanna fix it. I want to spend time with you. It would make me so happy to have a night with you." She finally meets my eyes and my chest warms because of it. It's rare that she initiates eye contact like that. "Please, let me take you out."

Something inside her cracks. I must have made my way in by just the tiniest bit, because she acquiesces. "Fine," she says. "But I have to change."

After she's made her way down the hallway, I pump my fist and mouth 'yes!' Because come hell or high water, I'm intent on making our night worthwhile.

…

"Ow! Shit," Clementine says, falling for the fourth time in five minutes.

"Clemmie, watch your language. There are kids," I say, lingering.

I extend my hand wordlessly, but she ignores it and stands up on her own - struggling the whole way. I don't know why she won't accept my help. "Sorry," she says. "_Shoot_." She rubs her knees as they wobble and teeter. "I'm gonna have some nasty-ass bruises because of you."

"Battle scars," I say, skating a circle around her.

She scrutinizes my easy movements. "How are you doing that?" she asks. "Didn't you fall on your face the other day_ without_ wheels on your feet?"

"Not my finest moment," I say, pointing at her. "But on wheels, I'm the picture of grace."

"Yeah, sure."

"I should start operating with these things on," I say, doing a figure 8.

"Please don't," she says, then lets go of the wall she'd been clinging to. As soon as she does, though, attempting to mirror my long strides, she careens forward and falls on her face - splayed out like a fawn on ice. "Jesus Christ," she mumbles, cheek pressed against the floor.

I chuckle good-naturedly as I make my way over. This time, I don't give her any choice but to take my hand. When she's on her feet again, I dust her off and see that her pride is wounded - so it's time to swoop in. "You know," I say, guiding her with one hand on the small of her back. "I taught your mom how to do this, too."

Her body tenses, as I knew it would. There's a strange dichotomy inside my daughter; she wants nothing more than to talk about her mother, but as soon as I start, she pushes the subject away. It's something I've never been able to understand. I'm not sure if we've ever been on the same page when it comes to April.

"And she acted just as stubborn as you," I say, talking to distract her from the movement of her feet. "Wouldn't let me help. And she didn't leave with just bruises, either. She was all sorts of cut up." I laugh a little. "Although, she always was. She was a climber. Always into something. Even in her 20s, you couldn't find her without a cut or bruise somewhere."

It's hard not to get sucked into the memory. April was the rough-and-tumble type, unafraid of most everything until she got pregnant. Then, she became more cautious - as most women do. But before then, she'd try anything. Tricks on her bike. Climbing the tallest tree she could find. Scaling a wall in the parking garage. And she wasn't exactly graceful, so she'd always end up falling. But it never dampened her perseverance or taste for fun.

It's easy to see April in Clementine right now. The look on her face, so determined to get this skating thing down. I wasn't lying; April did behave like this when we went for the first time. She wanted to catch on by herself so badly. So badly, she busted her lip before she gave in and let me help. I'm glad our daughter has a little more sense than that.

"See, you're doing it," I point out after the motion of Clemmie's legs has become more natural. She hadn't even realized it, just as I predicted. Skating is easier to do without overthinking. And now, she's as natural as I am. "Look at you!"

She smiles, looking between my eyes and how fluidly her skates roll. "Whoa!" she says, faltering only a little when I let go. "I really am!"

"Go Clemmie," I say, matching her pace. "You got this."

For a while, we make rounds around the rink in silence, and that's good enough for me. Just knowing she's happy makes me happy. But then, she starts to talk, and I wonder if she's going to open up to me. "Dad," she says.

"Hmm."

"I wanna ask you something."

"Shoot."

She takes a deep breath, keeping her hands out for balance. "There's this… thing," she says. "Coming up at school."

"Yeah?" I say. "What kinda 'thing'?"

She exhales through her nose with force. "A banquet thing. Like, a 'welcome back' event. It's on Saturday. And I was hoping we could go."

_We_. It's the word that sticks out in that sentence, and I hold it close for a while. She wants to do something else with me. Clemmie, who I can barely pull out of her room on most days, wants to spend even _more_ time with me. I'd be stupid to say no. Absolutely stupid.

"I'd love to," I say, grinning. "You said Saturday?"

"Yeah."

Bree's calendar comes to mind. She'll be in Tacoma for work that whole weekend. "Shoot," I say. "Bree won't be able to make it. Is that alright?"

Clementine looks at me with a look I can't quite read, but it's laced with amusement. "Uh, yeah, dad. That's fine," she says. "A lot of single parents will be there." She clears her throat. "At least… that's what I heard."

"Great, then," I say. I get the urge to take her hand and hold it, but have a feeling that wouldn't go over well. I don't want to push it, so I simply flash her a smile. "Saturday. It's a date."

…

I haven't worn a suit in a while, so when I go for my best one to find that the pants fit a little snugly, it's embarrassing. It's not like I'm on the way to busting out or anything, but I distinctly remember them being looser than this. I stand in the full-length mirror and study my gut, wondering if what I have is turning into a dad body. I sure to god hope not.

I'm almost nervous to put the suit jacket on, wondering if it will fail to button. Luckily, it's fine. I convince myself that the pants just shrunk at the dry cleaners, even though I take my suits to the best one in town. That doesn't matter right now. Mistakes happen, and I'm going to run late if I stare at myself in the mirror any longer.

"Clemmie Isabel," I call out, waiting near the front door. "Are you ready?"

"Dad! Hold on a freaking second." she snaps, which makes me smile. Her tone isn't malicious at all, not like usual. She sounds nervous, which is endearing.

I linger for a couple more minutes, making sure I have everything we need before slipping on my dress shoes. Then, I hear Clemmie's door and look up to see her in a burgundy dress with a halter neckline, her hair up in a sleek twist. She has on sparkling earrings - a gift I recognize from last Christmas - and subtle makeup. She looks gorgeous; grown up, but in a demure, beautiful way. Not in a way that's trying too hard, not at all.

"Clemmie," I say, unable to keep from beaming. "You look stunning."

"Dad," she says, trying to push away my compliment.

"Seriously," I say, wondering how to let her know that I'm genuine. "You remind me of her." She looks at me for a long moment and I know I need to name April. "Your mom."

"Dad."

"You do," I say. "And you should know it."

"Thanks, I guess," she says, turning away. I wonder why she does that. "Can we go now? Are you done admiring your reflection, princess? I saw you in your room."

"You saw nothing," I say, opening the door.

"I saw everything," she says, and I laugh, not because it's amazingly funny or witty, but because my daughter is teasing me, joking. And that's enough for me.

Clementine's nerves only increase when we get to the school. They were bad enough in the car; she wouldn't stop wringing her hands or fiddling with her hair. She adjusted her earrings so many times that they fell into the crevice between the seats not once, but twice. I finally had to tell her to stop, which she did not appreciate.

But now, it's worse. She cranes her neck, scanning the room like there's a threat imminent. She hasn't spoken a single word since we came in, not even so much as a complaint.

"You okay?" I finally ask her. "You seem nervous."

"I'm not nervous, dad," she says.

I don't bother pointing out that there's visible sweat on her temple, which gives away her anxiety even if her actions didn't. "Okay," I say. "How about some punch, then?"

"It's probably spiked."

I laugh a little. "Even more reason for punch."

"Dad. Stop."

I stop.

A few more strained, awkward moments pass where Clemmie and I don't do much of anything except stand there and suffer. I don't know why we're here if all she's going to do is tremble. If she's beside herself, why didn't we stay home? She's the one who wanted to come, so the least I can do is help her have a good time. I'm proud of her for trying to dip her toe in the social scene at her new school. We're going to make this good.

"Let's go see what there is to see," I say, encouraging her with a hand in the middle of her winglike shoulder blades.

"No, thanks."

Well, that was that. Her heels are buried in the sand now, she's dug them in.

A few more minutes pass until I hear Clemmie gasp softly. "Be back," she says, then hurries off. So fast that I don't even see the direction she leaves in. Suddenly, I'm left in the middle of a crowd of teenagers and their parents, lost and confused. Also, feeling a little fat in my suit. It's not a great time for me.

I scan the crowd like my daughter had been doing, finding myself with nothing better to do. Then, I see her. But she looks different. Her hair is down, not up, in coiled curls around her shoulders. It's pinned half back so her face is open, and she's busy tucking it behind her ears. As a group of people shift, I notice that her dress has changed, too. She's in a teal number now, with chiffon under the skirt and beading on the bust, spaghetti straps to boot. I know she goes shopping on her own frequently, but that dress doesn't look like something she'd ever choose.

Then, just as I'm about to go over and ask her what the hell is going on, the crowd moves again and she disappears from view.

"Damn it," I mutter. "What the fuck?"

I inch my way across the room, finding alleyways of people to slide through, until I see Clementine again. The back of her, in the getup I recognize.

"Clemmie," I say. "Clementine."

She turns around just as I feel a tap on my shoulder. My daughter and I lock eyes, then I turn around, only to be met with the face of… my daughter.

"Hi, Daddy."

It's Clemmie from before, in teal. Except Clemmie is behind me, in burgundy. Then she's beside me. And then she's right beside her… Clementine next to Clementine, except the girl in teal isn't Clementine at all. The girl wearing teal, the one with the Michigan-shaped birthmark on her clavicle, the one who I suddenly realize I spent yesterday evening with, is Skye.

"Sk…" I manage to stammer, taking a step back. It's a shock, a true and utter shock, seeing the twins next to each other after all these years. They haven't been in the same room since they were a year old, barely walking. And now, they're teenagers. Nearly adults.

Skye. Skye is here. I spent a whole night with Skye and I didn't put it together. How could I be so stupid, so blind?

"Daddy," she says, keeping her tone even. "You're okay."

All the blood has drained from my face and her voice sounds far away, though she hasn't moved from her place in front of me.

Skye is in front of me. Skye means April. Which means that April is somewhere in this city, in this building… in this room.

"Dad," Clemmie says. She's firmer than her sister. She looks at Skye as she mutters, "He's losing his fuckin' shit."

She's right. I am. But if she thought my 'fuckin' shit' was lost in that instant, it's nowhere to be found in the next - when April approaches. She comes from the side, taking Skye's shoulder, before realizing what situation we've found ourselves in.

"Holy…" she murmurs, voice fading as she takes it all in.

I find some of my resolve when I see April, the woman I once shared a life with. A beautiful life, too, before she took it from us. She's wearing black, a slip of a dress, really, with her hair in a loose updo away from her neck. There are a few tendrils framing her face, and she's wearing only a dainty gold chain for jewelry. She's more elegant than I've ever seen her. It's clear she now has money. Well, that is what she wanted.

The twins look between us like they're expecting something from a movie, but all I feel bubbling in my gut is red, hot resentment. I never thought I'd see this woman again, but here she is. On her own time. It was her decision, so she came. No warning. No heads-up. She's just here, stepping in where she'd stepped out. Because now, she wants to.

"I never thought I'd see _you_ again," April spits.

Her words are violent. They pack such a punch that I'm forced to take another step back as she sizes me up, and suddenly I'm more self-conscious than I have been all night in my ill-fitting dress pants. She notices; I know she does. She always used to notice how my clothes fit. And though that's no longer her place and it hasn't been for a long time, it's a skill I know she has not lost. And I wish I had worn pants that fucking fit.

"Same here," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I try to make myself as tall as possible, but she's wearing heels and refuses to be intimidated. But she wouldn't be even in flats, or in pajamas. April never cowers. Never. "I hoped I never would."

Her eyes harden and she pinches her lips, grinding her teeth like she used to when she was especially angry. How can an expression still be so familiar after 14 years?

She looks to Clementine. Looks at her face, then her ears. And she knows. While Skye spent yesterday with me, Clementine was with April. Her mother. The mother that she thought was dead, because that was the narrative I fed her.

There's too much happening. Too much to take in, and the banquet hall is loud as it closes it on me. I need to get out of here. Now.

"Clemmie, we're leaving," I say, taking her elbow.

"Skye," April says, with the same idea.

But the twins stand their ground. With their feet planted and shoulders set straight, they say it in unison. "No."


	10. Chapter 10

**APRIL**

Jackson's suit doesn't fit.

Maybe that wouldn't be the first thing others noticed, but it's first for me. I used to have every detail of his person memorized - every article of clothing, every razor, every sock, for Christ's sake. It always tugged at my heartstrings when his shirts were too short, frayed at the hem, or littered with holes.

And now, his pants are too tight. I'm sure, no matter what he's doing, that he has money to buy new ones, or even better, an entirely new suit. There's no reason to come to the Welcome Back Banquet in ill-fitting clothes, looking as uncomfortable as he must feel. They're digging into his waist. He's not big - I wouldn't care if he was - but the pants don't fucking fit around the middle and they're not the right length, either.

I haven't been around this man for five minutes and he has me internally swearing. I can't let myself get like this. I won't. I refuse.

But the fact that his clothes don't fit pisses me off just as much as the dumbfounded yet furious expression he's wearing. He has no right to be angry with me, none at all. It was _his_ idea to split up the twins. All his. So unless that stupid, frustrated look is geared inward, he better wipe it off his face quickly.

I can't look at him anymore. Not at his face and not at his pants that pinch. I want, more than anything, to get as far away from Jackson as I possibly can. But I realize that also means leaving Clementine, which I've already done once, many years ago.

I spent the night with her on Wednesday, I realize that now. Clementine wears earrings and Skye does not. Clementine didn't eat the Thai food because she's not Skye, who's crazy about it. When I called Skye on the phone, who I thought was in orchestra, I really had called her. But she was covering for her sister, who most likely forgot. I don't even know if she plays a musical instrument. I don't know anything about her, besides that she was the first to walk and her first word was 'mama.' I wonder if she knows that. I wonder what, if anything, Jackson has told her about me.

Before I can get the ball rolling, Jackson does. "Clemmie, we're leaving," he says. The fact that he doesn't consult me starts an entirely new rage. I haven't seen this daughter, discounting Wednesday, since she was an infant. Since she was weaned early at one year old. Skye breastfed until nearly two, which some baby experts would attribute to her current clinginess. But Clemmie didn't get that luxury.

I won't let Jackson make me look like a pushover, so I say, "Skye."

Neither of them budge. They stand with identical, rigid posture, united in their refusal. "No," they say.

I raise my eyebrows but find that I don't know who to look at. I end up centering my gaze on Skye, because she's the one I'm used to parenting. It's not like her to be obstinate, especially when I mean business. Of course I'm not ready to leave Clementine, but I am ready to leave Jackson. I don't know what I was thinking with him on my mind so much. Having him in front of me is very, very different than simply the idea of it.

"Yes," I say firmly. "We are leaving. And don't speak to me that way. I'm your mother."

I hold Skye's wrist gently, attempting to lead her away, but she rips it out of my grip - violently. I gape, eyes wide open, and watch her resolve tremble a bit. But though it trembles, it doesn't break. "No," she says again.

"Excuse me?" I balk.

"No," she repeats - the third time. I stare at her my anger rises, but it isn't geared toward my daughter, it's aimed at Jackson who's standing there like he's deaf and dumb. He's always been useless during confrontation. "I-I know you're my mother. But you're hers, too," she says, taking Clementine's hand to intertwine their fingers. "And she needs you. She thought you were dead this whole time."

My gut lurches. I haven't eaten anything since lunch, but what little I had threatens to make a second appearance. One hand actually flies to my midsection and the other to my mouth, I'm so worried about heaving. Luckily, nothing comes, but I still press my lips together to quell the thought.

"It's fine," Clemmie mutters, but I barely hear.

She thought I was dead. There's only one way she could have come to that conclusion, and that's if the idea came from Jackson.

Not long ago I was criticizing my own parenting, punishing myself over the glazed-over version of the truth I had told Skye. But she thought that Jackson left us, not that he _died_. She's always, ever since she was old enough to understand, known he was alive and out there somewhere. I would never, ever dream of telling her that he was no longer living.

I can't fathom why he would. When I turn to look at him, there's guilt written all over his face and in that moment, I hate Jackson more than I've ever hated anyone. More than I hated my brother when he cut off my ponytail when I was 10. More than I hated my parents when they iced me out. More than I hated myself for not being smart about safe sex. More than I hated him when he let me walk out the door with Skye on my hip.

He told my daughter, a human being who was made from half of me, that I died. That I was dead, because he didn't want to deal with the implications of the truth. So, simple as that, he killed me.

He's begun to sweat and I still haven't said a word. But I get closer to him, close enough to see the small grays in his facial hair and the fact that his nostrils are quivering. I'm so close, that when I raise my arm and strike him across the face, his entire body shudders from the impact.

The amount of force that came paired with that slap floors me. He almost topples over, it was so much. When he straightens out, the air goes still and there's a bright red palmprint on his cheek, plain as day.

"Mama!" Skye shrieks, stepping between us. "You can't do that! You can't just slap him!"

"Oh, my god," Clemmie murmurs, one hand over her mouth. "That was so badass."

"Are you serious right now?!" Skye says shrilly, as she looks between myself and her father. "I can't believe you just did that!"

By now, everyone is staring and I feel the heat from all the eyes. But the hottest of all are Jackson's, centered right on mine. "You made a scene," he growls, teeth tightly gritted. "We need to get out of here."

I cross my arms tightly across my chest. There's a vein on his temple that's bulging; I've never seen him wear such a fiery expression before. Years ago, he didn't have a temper. Nothing that came close to this display of rage. But I guess I could say the same for myself.

"You told her I was _dead_," I hiss, barely parting my lips to speak.

"We need to leave," he insists.

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" I say, and realize my shoulders are shaking. He notices in the same instant, as his eyes graze over the bare skin.

I'm overwrought with emotion. There's too much going on - too much to handle. Clementine is in front of me, a beautiful teenager. Her looks should surprise me less than they do, seeing as I look at her mirror image every day of my life. But that doesn't matter. She's a different person with an identity so separate from Skye's. And she's right here, standing beside me. I would hug her if I weren't so afraid of crushing her with not only love for her, but anger for her father.

I don't know what to do with myself. I assume taking both of them and making a mad dash for the door is out of the question, but I'm very tempted.

Clementine is right here. Jackson is here, too, and he told her that I was dead. I wonder what kind of story he made up. A car crash? Cancer? A freak accident? I never want to find out, yet I desperately need to know.

Jackson is here and his pants don't fit. That's the fact I can't stray from - why don't his pants fucking fit? Through his horrible clothing, his past full of lies with Clemmie, and the fact that he's looking through me right now, what makes me the angriest is the fact that I'm still attracted to him. It's been more than a decade and on the surface, he's a man who's grown older and been through phases of life I wasn't privy to. But under that, in his eyes, is the boy I walked away from, the idealist, the optimist, the one who always took stupid videos of me and picked homemade bouquets. He's still in there, no matter how I wish he weren't. I want to hate myself for still being able to see him, but it's impossible. I wonder if he can still see the version of me from our life before.

"I'm not going anywhere unless we all go together," Skye says, stomping one foot like she used to do at five when she didn't get her way. It wasn't often, but it did happen. I couldn't stand the foot-stomping then and I can't stand it now. It's the move of a spoiled brat, and that is something she's never been.

"Me, neither," Clementine says, backing her up. "You won't get me to move."

"I can pick you up," Jackson says.

"You won't," Clemmie says, and both he and I know she's right. I mean, I know she's right if he's anything like how he used to be. A lot of talk, little action.

"_You_ can't pick _me_ up, though," Skye says pointedly - looking into my eyes. "And I'm not leaving."

"Then I guess you're spending the night at school," I say, and turn on my heel, easy as that. It's a move I used to pull on the playground when Skye refused to go. Turn my back and shout, 'okay, bye!' all breezy. It worked then and it works now.

"Mama!" she says, getting a grip on my elbow. I turn around and acknowledge her with my eyes, but not with words. "Please. Please. I just want…"

"I thought you were dead," Clemmie says, and I meet her eyes.

When I look into my daughter's eyes - the one born first by a few precious seconds - time stops. They say that in movies and books, but it really does. It's like meeting her for the first time in the delivery room after she fought her way into the world, beating the air and announcing her arrival with short, piercing screams. It's that moment all over again, except she's now taller than I am. She's wearing makeup. Earrings. Kitten heels. She's nearly grown up; so much of me is in her, yet so little of her is in me… because Jackson and I chose two wildly different directions.

Then, the seconds and minutes and hours resume as I break the film and throw my arms around her. Tightly, confidently, I hug her like she's been gone for years - because she has been. I hold the back of her head with one hand and rock back and forth, taking her slight body with me, and kiss what I can reach. The side of her head. Her shoulder. Her hair. When I pull away, I kiss her damp cheeks and thumb away her tears until her skin is dry again.

"Clementine," I say, still holding her face.

"Come to our house," she says, overlapping my hands with hers. It's such a tender action, such a warm one, that I have no choice but to say yes. Who would I be to deny the daughter that spent years mourning me? I don't know if I'll ever be able to deny her anything - ever. "Please."

I don't look to Jackson when I agree. I don't need his permission, because it isn't for him. I'm conceding for our children, the two beings made from us whom we hurt so badly. They deserve some sort of a fix, a Band-Aid at the very least. But most of all, they deserve an apology. And not one that happens in the middle of a banquet hall with hundreds of teenage eyes on us.

…

Jackson's apartment is nothing short of what I expected. It's sleek and modern, full of neutral tones and devoid of any comfort. Just walking in, I'm dying for a throw blanket over the back of the couch, a cross-stitched pillow on the armchair, a placemat or two. But there's nothing like that to be seen. Instead, there's brand-new appliances, and a copious amount of stainless steel and leather. This is a bachelor pad if I've ever seen one. Has Clementine lived like this for her entire life? I can't imagine a toddler in this environment. My eyes are immediately drawn to the sharp corners of the coffee table and I picture a small, soft head coming into contact with them. My daughter is lucky to be alive.

I hover in the doorway for a moment while everyone else makes their way inside. All three of them have been here before - even Skye on the night I was tricked.

"Mama, come in please," Skye says.

They're already in the living room, in view of the door. And here I stand, still in my heels, close enough to the exit that I could bolt if I wanted. And I do want to. Very badly. But because of the identical faces looking at me with such pleading expressions, I won't.

I slip off my heels and I'm left in bare feet, which feels strange. Too familiar, and the floor is freezing. My dress is thin and when I put it on, I didn't think I'd have to wear a bra, and that's a choice that I'm now regretting. I cross my arms over my chest to stay decent.

"Here," Jackson says, hovering awkwardly around a chair I assume he normally sits in. "Let me grab you a sweater."

I don't refute him. In fact, I very much appreciate it. I can participate in whatever we're about to do much more presently if I'm not worried about my nipples showing through the silk I'm wearing.

"Socks?" he calls from down the hall.

"Yes, please," I answer.

He comes back with a pair of chunky black socks and a zip-up with the Cubs logo on it, both of which are obviously his. I slip the socks on and they go halfway up my shins and look absolutely ridiculous, but at least I'm warm. The zip-up is baggy and hangs around my neck even though I pull the zipper all the way to the top, but it's something. It smells insanely like him, and I'm surprised to note that his scent hasn't changed in the slightest.

Finally, I sit down on a low couch with an angled back. I find it hard to get comfortable, so I perch at the edge with my ankles crossed. Skye sits one cushion away from me, Clementine perches on the coffee table, and Jackson sits in the chair he had been eyeing before, still dressed in his uncomfortable-looking dress clothes. I'm the only one who's put any sort of layers on.

Surprisingly, Skye starts it off. "We want to know the whole story," she says, folding her hands in her lap like she's beginning a seminar.

I've never known her to take charge like this, but Clementine doesn't look very capable at the moment. She's busy staring at the floor, and when she does lift her eyes, she won't look at me. I guess I can't blame her.

"From the start," Skye continues. "We wanna know everything."

I stay quiet. I pucker my lips to chew on both sides of my cheeks and rub my feet together, hearing the soft sound the socks make. They're thick - nice and warm, probably expensive too. I'm grateful for it right now, because a powerful chill has come over my body with the thought of telling the whole story to the girls.

Where to begin? When Jackson joined me on the balcony during senior prom? Or later, when we found out I was pregnant? Or later still, when we found out it was twins instead of the little boy we had anticipated? I picture us in the throes of poverty, fighting our way from one bill to the next. Would the story start when we came back from vacation to find the lights shut off because Jackson never paid the bill he promised to take care of?

Or would the sordid tale begin when I refused to separate the twins, and initially, when Jackson did too? I wasn't the one who broke. He came up with the idea, though I guarantee he'll deny it.

There's no good place to start and there's no clear ending. Of course there isn't. This isn't a story that can be told unless you lived it, like Jackson and I did. Unless you suffered through it and made the impossible choices that we made. I won't sit here and tell it like it's some old legend from which lessons can be learned. There's nothing to glean from it. It was hundreds of small mistakes made by stupid teenagers, woven into a giant one that neither of us were able to swallow.

"Someone say something," Clementine pipes up.

She was always the more impatient twin. Skye could sit for hours and watch the dust motes float around the room, content doing next to nothing. But Clemmie was always busy getting into something, exploring, finding new ways to entertain herself. She was hard to keep up with, though I always managed some way or another when I was home with them during those forever-long summer days.

I sigh. I won't glance at Jackson, because that suggests we've formed some sort of union. And that isn't true. We haven't been partners since the day we split, and we'll never be partners again.

So, I look between my twins and let my shoulders go slack and lose their rigidity. "It's not as simple as that," I say, frowning. "It's not a linear story. It's… complicated."

"We have plenty of time," Skye says.

I close my eyes for a brief moment and inhale deeply. "It's not something I'm willing to relive," I say.

"We made mistakes," Jackson says. "We had moments that weren't our proudest."

"Our?" I say, unable to resist the bait - because I'm sure that's what it was: bait. "Our moments?"

"Yes, our moments," he says. I shake my head minutely. "What, April?" he says flippantly.

"Nothing," I say.

"It's gotta be something."

"I just find it funny that you're lumping me in with those mistakes," I say. "Those 'moments.' When it was your decision all along."

"Wait," Clemmie says. "Dad, it was _your_ idea to separate us?"

His eyebrows lower and his face turns a shade of pink I haven't seen since I slapped him. "That's a lie," he tells me. "Don't you dare put that idea in their heads."

"Because you'd rather lie to them, like you've lied to her for her entire life," I say. "Unless you are, in fact, talking to a ghost right now."

He opens and closes his mouth, gaping like a fish and struggling for words. Despite my better judgment, I feel satisfied. That's exactly what I wanted to do to him. He's never been a great arguer, especially when he knows I'm right.

"That was… not…" he begins. "It was never my intention."

"To kill me?" I prompt.

He shoots me a nasty look. I haven't seen one so nasty from him in many years, maybe ever. "I didn't know what else to… I just didn't know what to say," he says.

"I always thought, I bet what Jackson told Clemmie was so much better than what I told Skye." I scoff. "Guess I was wrong."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you left us," Skye pipes up - reminding us both that the twins are still here. We'd begun to argue like they were no longer present. Not a good sign. "That you walked out."

"I would never do that," he says.

I laugh humorlessly, loud and brash. "But you did!" I spew. "You did, though."

"But not like… it wasn't like you made it sound. You left, too."

I ball my hands into fists and clench them as hard as I can. "This is why I didn't want to have this conversation." I look to Skye. "This is why I didn't want to come here. Your father and I…" I look at Clemmie. "We don't get along anymore. We made two great things - you two. But he and I don't belong together anymore, if we ever did."

I don't know why I added that last part. I _know_ we belonged together - that at one point, we were perfect. Maybe it was to twist the knife. Because I know that it must have done just that for him.

"It happened in the past," Jackson says, apparently ignoring my dig. "And it's getting late now."

"We don't need to dredge it up," I say, finally standing on common ground with him.

Clementine stands up, quick as a shot. "Yes, we do!" she insists. Her teeth are bared and her eyes are alight with anger. "This isn't me and Skye wanting to talk about like… getting our driver's licenses or grades or something stupid like that. This is our literal lives, and you're being a bitch by keeping it from us!"

"Clementine!" Jackson says, pointing at her. I don't believe in pointing, especially at your child, but I don't choose this moment to voice that opinion. "Don't speak to your mother like that."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Now you're gonna stick up for me?" I say. "After you had me dead for all these years?"

"Jesus Christ," Jackson says, throwing his head back. "I understand that it was a mistake. If you're gonna keep rubbing it in my face, just get the fuck out of my house."

"I never wanted to come," I say, though I make no move to leave. "I was forced."

"We both know you can't be forced into anything," he says. "Having fun. Lightening up. Keeping your family together."

"Fuck you," I say, my voice scarily low. I don't sound like myself, but right now I don't feel like me, either. "It was _you_ who left."

"You walked out that door with Skye," he says. "And ran to your parents."

"And what did you do?" I say. Part of me is genuinely curious, but part of me already knows the answer. I just want to hear him say it. I want to see the shame on his face when he admits it. It's cruel, yes, but he's been cruel to me. "How did you and Clemmie survive?"

He stares me down like he's trying to start a fire with his eyes. He doesn't blink. Doesn't swallow. Until he opens his mouth to speak, he's completely frozen. "I asked my mother," he says. "And she gave me a loan, which I've since paid back to her."

"Fucking rich," I say, letting the curse words fly. "After you put up so much of a fight, refused to contact her when we were almost on the street with two babies. When you felt a little of that struggle on your own, without me there to shoulder it for you, that's when you went running to your mother."

"And you went running to yours."

"I always wanted to, though!" I say, raising my voice. "You wouldn't let me!" My chest is heaving now, but I try to lower the volume. "I had to do what I had to do. I was always willing to reach out for help, but you never were." I stare at him with the same intensity that his eyes had been on me. "Not until you had to handle it all yourself."

He has nothing left to say because he knows I'm right. The truth is impossible to argue with.

Taking a moment, I look around to find that the girls are gone. They must have slipped away, though I'm not sure when. "Shit," I mutter. "Fighting in front of them."

I won't meet his eyes now. There's a strange tension in the room, one that clearly says this fight isn't over. I hadn't expected it to end so easily.

"We always said that was something we didn't want to do," he says. "And look at that. It was the first thing we did."

"Well, we didn't want to do a lot of things," I say. "And we still ended up doing most of them."

We're quiet for a long while. So long, that I debate how this is going to end. Will I take Skye? Should I take both of them? Should we schedule a court date to work out custody, because that's what our life is going to look like now? There will be weekends, maybe even weekdays, where I don't have Skye at home. That's something I can't bear to swallow.

But before I can stand and figure out how to leave, Jackson speaks again. "You didn't have to slap me back there," he says. His voice is quiet but venomous.

I wonder how he found the gall to say that. No, it wasn't right to slap him in public, in front of so many people, but what else did he deserve? "You told her I was dead," I state, spitting out the last word. "What would you have done, if the tables were turned?"

"I would not have slapped you."

_He better not have_, is all I can think. But is that hypocritical? I don't know. All I know is that Clementine has spent her whole life thinking I was six feet underground, and Jackson got smacked across the face because of it. I don't think that's such an outlandish price to pay.

"Well, I did it," I say. "And I can't take it back now."

"If you could, would you?" he asks.

The question is loaded. He could be asking about the slap, or he could be asking about the last segment of our lives. I choose to answer the former, though, and say, "No."

He shoots me a superficial smile. "I honestly don't know what happened," he says. "Because I don't recognize you."

"Life happened, Jackson," I say. "I struggled. But you know what? I accepted help when it was offered to me. I was willing to ask before things got dire. I needed my family. That was something I could admit. And if you can't recognize me now, that's your problem. I'm the same as I ever was."

He shakes his head. "You're not," he says. "You're different now."

"I'm almost 38 years old," I say. "I'm not in my 20s anymore, and neither are you. I don't know what you expected."

"I didn't expect to see you again."

"Well, I didn't either," I say. "But here we are."

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, studying me. I don't like the way his eyes look directly through mine, like they're seeing so much more than anyone else would. He's always been able to do that. I guess it's not a skill a person can lose, but it's one I forgot he had.

"You have money now," he says. "I can tell. I bet that's nice."

"You do, too," I say, matching his tone. "I bet that's nice."

"It is," he says. "But money was never my driving force."

"And it was mine?" I say.

"You never stopped talking about it," he says. "I was working three jobs and it was still all you could talk about."

"Because I wanted to keep a roof over our heads!" I say. I'm allowing him to get me worked up, which I shouldn't be doing. There's no need to unbury this. It's not like we're going to solve anything.

"It was more than that," he says. "I was never good enough for you. No matter what I did."

"Fuck you," I say - for the second time tonight. If anything is unlike me, that is. "Stop making shit up to make yourself feel better. You are not the victim here, Jackson."

"Neither are you."

"No, I'm not!" I say. "You know who is? The girls. The girls are the victims, and we're at fault. So, stop pointing the finger at me, because you were part of the problem, too."

"You never even looked for her," he says.

"I-" I begin, but cut myself off. He's wrong. I did. I used to Google her name at least once a month, but I never knew the steps to take after that. I don't bring that up, though. I don't have to defend myself to him. "I didn't see you banging down Skye's door."

"You two have family," he says. "All Clemmie and I had was each other."

"If you would've just- oh, my god!" I growl, throwing my head back. "You are impossible." I let out a chuckle that sounds more like a bark. "I used to wonder why I left. In the middle of the night, when I'd miss you so bad? I used to chastise myself for leaving you. _You_! When I'd already exhausted myself with regrets about Clemmie, it always came back to you. And now, I realize how stupid I was. You didn't bother to see my side then, and nothing has changed. You're not seeing it now, either. You're a pain in the ass, Jackson. You always have been."

"I am?" he says, truly dumbfounded. He laughs too, fake like mine. "I never spent time missing you, thank God."

"Because you fucking killed me!" I shout.

"Jesus Christ, enough with that!" he bellows in return.

I stand up from the couch and walk to where he still sits in his chair. Leaned back now, knees spread, he's way too confident. "Do you think that's something I'm just gonna get over?" I ask, glaring at him. "Do you think Clemmie is _ever_ going to get over it?"

"I fucked up, alright?" he says. "Don't act like you haven't done things you regret."

"But I can admit my mistakes," I say. "You can't. That's always been your problem." I poke his chest with my finger - hard. "You. Can't."

"Don't tell me what I can't do," he says, taking my wrist. His grip is tight - tight enough to let me know he means business, but not enough to hurt.

"Never stopped you before," I mutter, and with how thick the air has gotten between us, I'd be stupid not to guess what happens next. I know, and I'm not going to stop it, either.

You don't have to love someone to fuck them. You don't even have to like them. And thank god, because I feel neither of those things for Jackson. Not on the surface, at least. Right now, I hate everything about him, from the look on his face to the cocky way in which he pulls me down to straddle his lap.

Except I don't hate that. Not at all.

Before I know it, we're kissing. They aren't soft, eager kisses, either. They're hard and brash, full of teeth and heavy sighs and wandering hands. He unzips the sweater of his that I'd put on not long ago and forces it down my shoulders, and I shake it off without pulling my mouth away from his. I sit on his thighs and feel the fabric of his pants taut against my skin, then move my hips forward slowly, finding a rhythm that we most likely haven't lost.

We don't speak. He untwists my bun so my hair unravels and cascades around my shoulders, then he buries his hands in it and pulls. I whimper against his lips, forcing my hips more insistently against his, and move lower to kiss his neck - mouth wide open.

His hands find my ass eventually. I knew they would, I was waiting for it. He grips me tight, fingers digging into the supple skin, and shoves my hips flush against his torso. His dick is taking over for his brain; I can read that as his actions grow more controlling. He wants this as bad as I do, and he's probably wanted it for just as long.

Jesus, I've wanted him longer than I've let myself admit. How hard my blood hammers in my ears lets me know that much.

"Your room," I breathe, fingers dancing over the buttons of his shirt. I can't imagine anything worse than the kids catching us in the act, especially when this will lead precisely nowhere. They'd get the wrong idea. The last thing we need is more miscommunication.

"Right," he says, then scoops me up. Just like he used to, like I weigh nothing.

I wrap my legs around his waist, skirt hitched around my waist, and press the door shut behind him as we walk into the master bedroom. He locks it for good measure, then tosses me onto the mattress where I land with a soft bounce. Poised at my feet, he takes the socks off and throws them aside, then yanks me to a seated position to pull my silky dress over my head.

All I'm wearing is a pair of black lace underwear. I haven't been naked in front of him for 14 years, but nothing feels new. His eyes are black with arousal and we're still not speaking, but we don't need to. This isn't about love. This isn't about reunification. This is about release.

"C'mere," I murmur, sitting up on my knees as he stands.

With some effort, I tug on his shirt and untuck it from his pants, then burst the buttons as I tear it to either side. If he's amused, he doesn't show it. He's too horny, and so am I. All he can do is watch me, and my hands don't falter.

I make it to the waistband of his pants where I struggle with the button for what feels like ten minutes before it pops open. "Your pants don't fucking fit you," I say, looking up from my knees. "I hate that shit. You know that."

He laughs a little, a real laugh. One that pulls on the corner of his lips and makes his eyes glint. "Oh, yeah," he says. "You did hate that."

Aggressively, I pull them down his legs in three short bursts. "You need," I say, still working. "New pants."

"I have better ones," he says.

"Then why didn't you wear them tonight?"

"These fit fine."

"You're getting fat," I say, as he crawls over my body. We're in our underthings now. We're going to fuck, and I can't wait. We shouldn't be talking as much as we are.

"Shut up," he says. "Just shut up, would you?"

For once, I agree with him.

He separates my thighs after ridding me of my underwear and shedding his own, then lowers his head, mouth open. But before he can get far, I shove him away by the forehead. "No," I say, bringing my knees back together. "You don't get to eat me out."

"Wh…" he stammers, lost for words.

I should've known he wouldn't expect that. Getting head was always my favorite thing, and he was the best at it. I don't doubt he still is. But it's too intimate for what I want right now. I want it rough and I want it fast, and I don't want any lingering looks or residual feelings.

So, I tell him as much with three short words. "Just fuck me," I say, and open my legs again.

The only other man I've slept with since we separated is Alex, and sex with him is nothing like sex with Jackson. That's not to say it wasn't enjoyable because it wasn't bad. I wouldn't have continued if it were bad. It just wasn't like _this_.

Jackson fucks me like it's his last day on earth, and all I can do is take it. Normally, if we were in our old relationship, I would do everything to reciprocate. But this time, he doesn't let me. All I'm capable of doing is clinging to him with all of my limbs, tight as I can, and digging my nails into his back as he pounds me. I press my lips together as hard as I can because if I didn't, I'd end up screaming, and I don't need the twins hearing that.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I moan, pressing my face into his sweaty neck. His hips slam against mine, and other than my intermittent sighs of pleasure, the only sound in the room is skin against skin. And it's not gentle. "Jesus, Jackson, I'm gonna come!"

"God, I missed hearing you say that," he grunts, but I choose to ignore it. I pretend that I didn't hear it.

"Harder, harder, harder, harder…" I whine, lifting my hips and spreading my thighs as far as they'll go.

"If I go any harder I'm gonna snap you in half, Mini," he says.

"Then do it," I say, piercing him with my nails. They aren't quite as blunt as they used to be. I get them done now.

"Fuck," he growls, and takes it up a notch. A notch that I didn't even know he was capable of. He thrusts so hard that I see stars and when I throw my head back, I can't control the sounds that escape me. My whole body trembles and squirms, back arching as he forces an earth-shattering orgasm out of me. Every muscle - inside and out - quakes. When it's ending, I wrap my legs around his waist and latch my ankles together, if only to make the sensation last. I'd do anything to keep it just a little longer.

Orgasms like that don't happen every day. I can't let it go easily.

…

I don't remember falling asleep. The last image in my head is Jackson kissing my neck, then moving lower to suck on my nipples. He always used to do that post-orgasm, but that memory only came back when I saw it. And felt it.

But after that, nothing. Blackness. I guess coming as hard as I did last night knocked me right out. I'm thankful, actually. It gave me no time to think about what we did, or regret it.

Just like old times, Jackson stirs just as I'm opening my eyes. I'm sore as hell; when I roll over, the space between my thighs throbs. With desire for attention or achiness, I'm not sure. Probably a combination of both. I'll have to find some way to get a message down there to _not bother getting used to that kind of fucking_.

"Shit," Jackson says, after his phone buzzes. He sits up instantly, naked as the day he was born. I stare at his back, letting my eyes roam the freckles and the muscles that move as he rolls his shoulders. He's sore, too, though he won't admit it. Or maybe he's just old.

Then, he stands. Fuck, his ass is amazing. It's always been tight, but it's more muscular now. Jesus, I'm sick. I can't stand this man. I have to get my eyes off his ass… and his stomach, fuller now than before, but I find that I like it this way better. I want to get my hands on it. My lips… my tongue… if my eyes sneak any lower, I'll never leave this bed.

"You gotta go," he says, jolting me from the daydream I'd allowed myself to slip into.

He's still staring at his phone, typing madly. "What?" I say, rubbing my eyes. I slept so hard last night. Heavy sleep after sex is truly unlike anything else. I feel like a brand-new woman. I could take on the world today. Well, maybe I could, if he weren't kicking me out like a two-dollar hooker.

"You have to leave," he says, stepping into his boxers after throwing me my dress. It's all I have to wear home. That's great.

"Why?" I say, agitated again. Forget the sex-soaked haze I'd been floating in. Pissed April is back.

"Because it's my house and I don't want you here?" he snaps.

I pinch my lips and tear my dress on over my head without even thinking of my hair. It's past the point of no return. I raise my hand and flip Jackson the bird as I wrench open the bedroom door, then I'm suddenly face-to-face with my two daughters.

"Whoa… mom," Clemmie says. They're both in pajamas, still sleepy as they've just woken up. Well, they had been sleepy a millisecond ago. Now, they're alarmed. "Did you and Dad fuck last night?"

"Mama!" Skye says, aghast.

"Skye," I say, giving her a stern look with an even sterner voice. "We're leaving."

This time, she doesn't tell me no.


	11. Chapter 11

**CLEMENTINE**

When we insisted on bringing Mom and Dad to the same place, I should have assumed they'd end up fighting. I expected bickering, remarks under their breath, and petty shit. But I can easily say I didn't expect what they showed us tonight.

What little I've seen of them from the past made me wonder how in the world they could've broken up. But seeing them like I just did, I wonder how the hell they stayed together. Mom literally slapped the shit out of Dad at the banquet - the expression on his face is still cemented in my memory. It was wild, that's for sure. From how Skye talked about her, slapping Dad is something I never imagined she'd have the balls to do.

I realize I know next to nothing about Mom, and I want that to change, but it feels overly-sentimental to ask Skye to give me the rundown. I don't want to seem obsessed, although it does feel like I am, a little bit. I'm probably allowed to be, given that I just found out my mom is alive when I thought she was dead for my whole life, but I'm still not used to it.

The two of them were fighting so bad in the living room that me and Skye slipped away without even being noticed. They were so caught up in their old drama that it was like we weren't even there. That wasn't exactly the greatest feeling, but at least we got out. The last thing me and Skye heard was Mom saying 'fuck you' to Dad, and I figured it was about to get even uglier. So, I took my sister's arm and nodded towards the hallway, towards my room, where we are now.

"Well, that sucked," Skye says.

I'm sitting on my bed and she's making rounds in my room, looking at all the pictures. They're everywhere, taped to the wall, pinned to my corkboard, tucked inside my mirror. She seems enthralled, just like I was with the images in her room. So, I let her look. It doesn't feel weird at all. Pictures are a good way to catch up on somebody's life. It's easier than trying to tell her the whole thing in words.

"Yeah," I say. "I thought it'd go better than that."

She sighs, and her shoulders deflate. We're both still wearing our banquet dresses, so I stand up and find sweats for us. We're the exact same size, so it works. Pretty soon, she's in a matching burgundy set and I've thrown on a pair of basketball shorts and a camisole.

"When Mama talks about Dad… well, when she _did_, she never talked like she hated him. She always said good things. So, how was I supposed to know?" Skye says.

I shrug. "I guess she didn't wanna tell you the bad shit. That way, you could keep a good image of him in your head."

She rolls her eyes halfheartedly. "Did Dad ever tell you anything about her?" she asks, then clarifies - as if she has to. "Mama, I mean."

"Barely," I say. "But yeah, what he did say… made it seem like he still loved her. Like, from beyond the grave."

"That's so messed up," Skye says.

I laugh and sarcastically say, "Ya think? Also, you can say it. It was _fucked_ up."

"Well, I can't say that," she mutters, tucking hair behind her ears.

"Why not?"

"Mama doesn't like me cursing," she says, then changes the subject by pointing to a photo in the middle of my ribbon board. "Who's this guy?"

She's pointing at James. I should've known this would come up sooner or later, but I was hoping for later. I haven't talked to him since all this shit started, though he's texted me a few times. I hope he doesn't think I'm ghosting him. I'll get back to him soon. Not tonight, though.

"Um, my boyfriend," I say, adjusting my socks to give my hands something to do.

"You have a _boyfriend_?" Skye asks, like it's the craziest thing she's ever heard.

"Uh… yeah," I say.

"Does Daddy know?"

"No," I say, eyes wide. "And you better not say shit, 'cause he can't know."

"Oh," she says, then pretends to zip her lips and throw away the key. "Why not?"

"James is older," I say. "And Dad would flip his shit no matter what. He doesn't like me dating… or doing anything, really. He hates fun."

"It didn't seem like that," my sister says.

"You spent one day with him. Try your entire life. It's shittier than you'd expect."

"Oh…" she trails off, crossing her arms as she looks at the selfie of me and James. If she was that surprised over the fact that I have a boyfriend, no way am I gonna tell her about drinking or trying weed. It's not that I even liked it, but I have a feeling that wouldn't matter to Skye. She's so straight-edge, it's almost intimidating. Well, maybe it would be if she weren't my sister. It'll just take some getting used to. Maybe I can get her to come out of her shell a little bit.

"Is Mom fun?" I ask.

She smiles instantly, an involuntary reaction. And my involuntary reaction to her smiling is hot, bubbling jealousy in the pit of my stomach. How come she gets to smile thinking about Mom and I had to live this boring ass, stuffy life with Dad? I'm starting to get the idea that Mom got to pick what baby to take, but they both wanted Skye. Dad got the short end of the stick by getting me and he's spent my whole life making me pay for it.

"Yeah," Skye says. "She's also really funny. I don't know if you saw that yet, but you will. She does crazy stuff just to do it. Like… climb tall things, or trees… she can skateboard, did you know that?"

"How would I?" I retort.

"Oh, sorry," Skye says, subdued.

"Sorry…" I sigh. "I don't mean to get nasty. It's not your fault."

"Yeah." She wrings her hands and looks at the ceiling, then lowers her eyes to mine. "Is it weird?" she asks. "Like… sorry. I don't know how to ask. But… you thought Mama was dead this entire time. It must be so crazy to actually see her. I keep thinking about how weird it is for me to see Dad, but it has to be ten times more intense for you."

She blinks a few times, expecting a response. In all honesty, I don't know what to say. It's clear she and Mom have these kinds of deep talks all the time, and they're in tune with their emotions, or whatever. Well, me and Dad aren't. We're actually pretty stunted when it comes to shit like this.

"It's… fucking crazy," I say, trying to find a way to fill the silence.

"Is it like she's back from the dead?"

I shake my head, frowning as I try to think of how to describe it. "No…" I say. "It's like… I don't know. Like, when I thought she was dead, I felt closer to her than I do now. Because people always say that you can talk to the dead because they're spirits, or whatever. So, I used to talk to her in my head a lot and I really thought she could hear me." I scoff. "That sounds so stupid now. I've never said that out loud, so don't judge me."

"I'm not judging," Skye says, completely transparent.

"Well… yeah," I say, shoulders up by my ears. "And now that she's like… not dead… I feel like I don't know her and I never actually did. I was talking to no one, basically. And I don't know how to talk to the actual living version of her, which is weird."

Skye is quiet for a while, letting what I've said simmer. I appreciate that about her. She's a great listener, unlike Dad. I bet she got that from Mom.

After a while, she meets my eyes and I see hers are watering. This girl cries at the drop of a hat, I swear. "She wants to know you really bad," Skye says. "She might not have… like, said that, but she does. I know she missed you. And you're probably wondering, like, why didn't she come looking for you? Because I wonder that about Dad, and I always have, because I knew he was alive. And that's their problem, why they did or didn't do what they did. But I want you to know that Mama loves you, and I think that once you get to know her, you'll really, really love her, too."

This is too much for one night. Her words sit so heavy with me that I have to lie down in order to bear their weight. "Thanks," I manage to say. I hope she understands that, while I appreciate what she's saying, I don't have a way to handle it. I have no idea how.

"Yeah."

"I'm pretty tired," I say. "My bed's big enough to share, if you wanna."

"Sure," she says, smiling.

She flicks the light off and crawls under the covers, resting her head on the pillow next to mine. She lies on her back and so do I, and then we hear something that scars us both for life. "Oh, Jesus Christ," Mom moans. "Jesus, Jackson, I'm gonna come!"

"Holy. Fuck," I say, pushing in both sides of my pillow to cover my ears. "No, no, no! Make it stop!"

"What?" Skye says, having already fallen halfway to sleep. But she doesn't have to wait long before her question is answered by more of Mom in the throes of ecstasy.

"Harder, harder, harder, harder!" she wails.

The image in my head is absolutely horrible. I need mental bleach like _now_.

"Oh, my god!" Skye squeals, turning onto her stomach. "Are they…?"

"Fucking? Uh, yeah," I say, pinching my eyes shut tight. "Hold on."

I reach over and turn my iPod dock on, playing whatever comes first. Loud, too. Whatever it takes to make the sound of Dad busting a nut leave my ears. I'm literally never going to be the same after this.

"I'm dead inside," Skye mutters, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah, same," I say, but still - I can't help but smile. This is what sisters do, accidentally hear their mom and dad going at it, then find a way to fix it. I'm falling asleep next to my _sister_. There's something pretty cool about that.

…

In the morning, Skye wakes up first and even though she tries to get out of bed slowly and quietly, the motion still surprises me. I'm not used to having another person in my bed, so for a second I'm really freaked out.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I have to pee."

"All good," I say. I have my retainer in - so does she - and I pop mine out. "I can't handle this thing for one more second."

"Okay," Skye says, then we open my bedroom door and head down the hall, only to be met with Dad's bedroom door bursting open.

Mom is half turned around, flipping Dad off. Instantly, my lips crinkle up as I hold in a laugh. She's literally doing everything I've wanted to do since I was like, 12, over the span of a single day.

But still, they surprise us. Both me and Skye jump back from the suddenness of it all, and then we stare. Mom is in her clothes from last night, and her hair is insane. Sex hair, no doubt. Her makeup is half rubbed off her face and the dress is wrinkled, hanging off her in a much different way than when it actually looked nice.

"Whoa… Mom," I say, because it's the only thing I can think _to_ say. For some reason, I ask a question that I already know the answer to. "Did you and Dad fuck last night?" I think I need to hear her admit it.

"Mama!" Skye exclaims. I bet she's not used to seeing Mom like this at all.

"Skye," Mom says, her face turning to stone. "We're leaving."

She just says 'Skye.' Not 'girls,' no addition of my name at all. And Skye trails after her, shooting a strained look back at me once they get close to the door.

"Wait!" she says.

She's reading my mind, so I jump on the opportunity. I need to speak up and start to tell Mom and Dad what I want. "I wanna come, too," I say.

Mom smiles. It's a small one, but it's there. "Of course, honey," she says.

I don't bother asking Dad for permission, but he tenses from where he stands in the hall. "Wait, Clemmie, you're going?"

"Yes, I'm taking her," Mom says. That feels really good to hear. She's taking me, claiming me. "I'm taking them both home, since you want us out so bad."

Dad checks his phone and it dawns on me. Bree must be texting him. _Shit_. I didn't think she got back until tomorrow, and it seems like Dad thought that, too. I keep my mouth shut, though. That's his business. But I guess, now he's a liar _and_ a cheater. Great.

He sighs. "Fine," he says. "Clemmie. Are you sure?"

"I wanna go, dad," I mumble, still in my pajamas as I stand next to my sister and my mom. They don't look much better, so I figure I'll just borrow some of Skye's clothes once we get to their house.

"Alright," he says, but he sounds a lot less than alright. "April, then what? When am I supposed to get her? Them?"

"They have school off tomorrow," Mom says, slipping her heels on. It's barely 9am and she's going out like that. I'd be embarrassed if this weren't all such a mess. I don't have time to register anything that's happening, which is probably a blessing in disguise. "Text me then. We'll figure it out."

"I'll come over tomorrow night," he says. "Grab them."

"Sure," she says, then opens the door.

"Bye, Daddy," Skye says, throwing a wave over her shoulder.

"Bye, honey," Dad says.

She's the only one who says it. Me and Mom give him the cold shoulder, and it feels pretty damn good, too.

…

When we get to Mom and Skye's apartment, Mom is quiet. Like, really quiet. Disturbingly so. This is a lady who literally never stops talking, and she hasn't opened her mouth one time since we left Dad's.

It doesn't take a genius to guess what's on her mind. Clearly, she and Dad 'banged' last night, as Skye would put it. And then he kicked us all to the curb like yesterday's trash this morning, and Mom doesn't know why. I do. Bree. But I'm not going to tell her that, because like I said, that's his job. I just hope he comes clean. I don't have a lot of faith in him to do that since that guy really loves lying, but we'll see. Maybe he'll surprise me.

But I bet Mom is confused. She hasn't seen Dad in like, over a decade, and after they have sex he just boots her. That can't feel good. If James did that to me, I'd kill him. But that would mean having sex with him first, which I am not going to do. So, I'm safe.

Mom retreats down the hall and I hear the shower turn on and her bedroom door shut. She probably needs to wash him off her, and I can't fault her for that. It's nasty. She should take like, ten showers.

"I don't think she's okay," Skye says, leading me into her room. "You can borrow anything, by the way. I don't care what."

"Cool, thanks," I say, and find a pair of leggings and a pink t-shirt that says 'Nantucket Lobster Co.' on it. I don't really feel picky today, so I slip it on along with a sports bra that she lends me. It's nice, sharing clothes with her. Also really convenient, since we're the same size in everything.

"Do _you_ think Mama's okay?" Skye asks.

I shake my head no, pulling my hair out from the neckline of the t-shirt. "I think she's pissed," I say. "And confused."

"Why would Dad kick her out after they did… that?" she asks.

"'Cause he's a dick," I say.

"Clemmie," she says, scolding me. I think that's the first time she's used my nickname. "No, he's not."

I laugh a little. "You've known him for a like, two days. I've been around him my whole life. Trust me, he's a dick."

She sits down on her bed. "I don't think he is," she says. "I think that they're both hurting and they're taking it out on us and each other. They're kinda bad at dealing with emotions."

"Ya think?" I say for the second time in two days.

She chuckles softly. "But he's not a… a dick. He's confused. And Mama… well, Mama's hurting and she has been for a long time." Skye meets my eyes. "And I think you are, too."

"Me?" I say. "I'm fine."

"Okay," she says, but I know she doesn't believe me. I've had enough of the deep talks for like, the next six weeks though, so I let it go for now.

"I just wanna know how the split went down," I say, sitting next to her. "It's not fair that we don't know. What was with all the bullshit they spewed when we asked about it last night?"

"I don't know," Skye says. "But I wanna know, too. And…" she begins, her eyes lighting up. "I wanna see pictures from when we were babies. They must have them."

"And they've been hiding them this whole time?" I ask.

She shrugs. "They've been hiding everything else."

"True."

"We gotta find out," she says solidly. "When Mama gets out of the shower, I'm asking."

So, we wait. Dressed now, we sit on the living room couch on adjoining cushions. Skye rests on her knees, eagerly waiting for Mom to come down the hall, and I hug my shins to keep my legs close. It's a guarded position, I know, but I'm not feeling the most confident right now.

When Mom finally appears, Skye practically jumps on her. "Mama," she says, so quickly that Mom flinches. Her hair is wet and in wavy tendrils on her shoulders, and she's wearing an old crew neck sweatshirt and jeans, looking a lot smaller and younger than she did in the dress. It's kind of weird how she's the mother of two 15-year-olds. She barely looks 30 herself, though I know she and Dad are almost 40, which is gross.

"Baby, what?" Mom asks wearily. "You scared me."

"Sorry," Skye says. "But… me and Clemmie were talking. And we wanna know what happened when you and Daddy split up. We _need _to know. Please, don't keep it from us anymore."

Mom takes a deep breath and lets it out from her mouth, closing her eyes as she does. She leans against the kitchen counter for support, and when she opens her eyes again, they're glassy. Well, now I feel like shit. Even though I haven't said a single word.

It's a weird feeling, not knowing how to talk to Mom. I wonder if she thinks it's weird, too. I hope she doesn't think _I'm_ weird or standoffish or a bitch. I just don't know how to act around her, especially because she and Skye are so close.

"I know… you two need to know," Mom says, walking closer. "But it's not an easy story, and it's not just mine to tell. I think your dad needs to be here, so both of us can tell it."

"Yeah, but with the two of you in one room, you just end up fighting," Skye says.

"Or fucking," I mutter under my breath, but Mom hears.

"Clementine Isabel, please don't use language like that," she says.

It's the first time she's taken the 'mom tone' with me. I hate it when Dad tries to sound stern, because he's so fake when he does it. But Mom sounds legit, which makes me clamp my lips shut and say, "Sorry."

"I understand that last night was… a mess," Mom says. "It was. A big mess. And that was our fault, not either of yours. But we can do better. To tell you the story, we will do better."

I believe her. At least, I really, really want to.

"So, when he comes to pick you both up tomorrow night, we'll talk," she says.

"I can't wait that long," Skye pipes up. "And neither can Clemmie. We've waited for 15 years, mama. We can't do it anymore."

I agree with everything that my sister is saying, but I'm finding it really hard to open my mouth and speak for myself. So, because of that, I let her do it. And that's strange enough in itself, being that I'm usually outspoken. But around Mom, it's different. _I'm _different.

"Please, Mama," Skye says. "I think we deserve to know."

Mom waits for a long beat, looking between us. It feels good when her eyes are on me. I like it when she looks at me. I don't know what that's about, really.

"You do," she finally says. "Yes, you do. So, I guess we should go back to your dad's and figure all this out."

…

I have no idea what will be waiting for us when we get back to mine and Dad's apartment, but I don't know how to voice that without sounding obstinate or like I don't want to go. I do really want to figure everything out, but I'm afraid of the mess that will ensue if Bree is there.

"Are you guys sure we should…?" I ask while we're in the car. Too late, I know. But still, I have to try. "Dad is coming tomorrow. Maybe it'd be better if we waited."

"Why?" Skye asks, then looks at me like I'm a traitor. "Don't you think we've already waited long enough?"

"Yeah, I guess," I say.

"Clemmie, is everything okay?" Mom asks.

How do I tell her that it's not? How do I tell her that we might be walking into something really awful and heartbreaking in just a few minutes? I don't know, I don't have any idea how to put that across. "Yeah," I answer.

"Did your dad…" Mom begins, but she doesn't finish.

"What?" I say.

"Never mind," she says, shaking her head as she looks at the road. "We'll be fine, babe. What your dad and I never wanted to do was fight in front of you two. And it was horrible to do it right off the bat, it was an awful thing for us to do. So, I'm going to try really hard to hold up my end of the deal and stay civil. You don't have to be afraid of how this is gonna go."

Her words are comforting, but not all-encompassing. They are for Skye, but not for me. She's still in the dark about one component: Bree.

My stomach twists with nerves as the elevator brings us up to our floor; we didn't even bother telling Dad we were coming. This is going to be bad. This is going to be really, really bad.

Skye mistakes my nerves as being for the impending story, though, and takes my hand. "We're finally gonna hear it from them," she whispers as Mom rings the bell. "It's gonna be good. Even if it's not easy… at least we're hearing it."

"Yeah," I say halfheartedly.

"Jackson, it's us," Mom says just before the door opens. Dad only opens it a crack, though, making it obvious that he's hiding something - or someone. "Hi," Mom says, sounding confused. "Can we come in? The girls want to talk."

Dad meets my eyes and I know he knows I know. But I don't soften my expression nor do I give him any kind of an out. Whatever's about to happen, he deserves it. I wonder if Mom will slap the life out of him again. That'd be a sight.

"Um…" he says.

"Who's there?" Bree asks.

Mom takes a quick step back, a powerful step. She almost runs right into Skye. "Who is that?" she asks.

"Um… Bree," Dad answers, caught.

"Bree?" Mom repeats.

"Yes?" Bree calls out.

Dad deflates. There's no way out now. "Well, come in, I guess," he says.

Mom leads the way, hair half-dried and very curly. I didn't know it was that curly. When she sees Bree, she stops so suddenly that her curls bounce as if they have a life of their own. "Who are you?" she demands.

"I'm…" Bree begins, then looks at me. Then, she looks at Skye. Then back to me. "What the… why are there two of them?"

I smile. Okay, seeing her stupid shocked look is more satisfying than I thought it would be. She already isn't a huge fan of me, and now she gets double trouble. Ha ha, bitch.

"I have twins," Dad says, then amends his statement. "I.. uh, _we_ have twins."

"We?" Bree spits.

"This is their mom, April," Dad says.

"April?" Bree shrieks. "You mean April, who's dead? That April?"

"Alive and in color," Mom says, though her voice is monotone. She's glaring at Bree with such animosity that I'm surprised Bree doesn't drop dead on the spot. Jesus, Mom is a bitch to be reckoned with. No wonder Dad loved her so much.

"You said she was… you said!" Bree says, practically shouting.

"I know," Dad says. "I lied."

"Is she your…?" Mom asks without finishing. Enough is implied.

"I'm his girlfriend!" Bree says, turning red. "And you're the baby mama, back from the fucking dead?!"

"Well, I was never dead," Mom says. She's keeping her promise and staying calm. I'm proud of her for that. "Jackson's just a lying piece of shit."

Oh, crap. Her tone has venom now. Dad's about to lose his life.

"Yeah, I see that," Bree says, shooting daggers at Dad with his eyes. This guy seriously cannot win.

"So, you're seeing somebody," Mom says, and her eyes say it all - everything about last night. Even I can read that. They're flickering with flames and intensity, daring him to try and defend his actions when she knows very well that he can't.

"Uh, yeah," Dad says.

"Great," Mom says.

"So, what'd you stop over for?" Dad asks.

No one speaks. Mom has her phone out now, and I can see it over her shoulder. I can't help it; I read the text she sends to someone named Alex as Skye answers Dad.

**Did a lot of thinking during the move. I miss you. Come see me ASAP? **

I avert my eyes quickly and listen to my sister try and keep our heads above water. "We came because we want to know the whole story and Mama said it'd be best for us to hear it from you both."

Dad scratches the back of his neck. "I, uh… yeah, I agree," he says. "But now's not exactly the best time…"

Mom powers off her phone and stands up straight, regaining her voice. "Right," she says. "Well, then we'll talk tomorrow." She nods curtly in Bree's direction. "Nice to meet you, Dee."

I press my lips together to hide my smile. Mom is literally such a badass.

**JACKSON**

I should've thought of an excuse, something to tell Bree so she wouldn't come over. I have strep throat, I'm on-call, Clemmie needs to be driven somewhere. Pretty much anything would've worked - she's not known for her iron will. But my brain was so damn muddled after sleeping with my ex and I wasn't thinking straight.

Fucking April was phenomenal. More than that, actually, but I've never been the best with words. I haven't had sex like that since she and I were last together, and that is a long-ass time. Bree and I aren't anything close to celibate, but nothing we do is out of this world. And with April, it is and always was. It's not like we're ultra-kinky (though she was never averse to trying), it all has to do with our connection. It didn't need to be unburied or salvaged at all; when I touched her body, it was like coming home. And now, I can't get her out of my head.

So, no, I shouldn't have let Bree come over. And the fact that April, Skye, and Clementine burst back in not an hour after she arrived made things a thousand times worse. I knew I'd have to tell April about Bree eventually - either that, or break things off with Bree. But I don't want to be with April, not as a couple, so there's not really a reason for that.

In the daylight, I'm pretty sure I want to be with Bree. But April should know about her, and I didn't say shit. I could tell by the look on her face that she was not only pissed as hell, but hurt. And that's on me.

She thinks she played it cool. She kept an icy facade and typed away on her phone, seemingly unbothered. But she's not that good of an actor, and I saw right through that shit. I can't help but feel the tiniest bit satisfied that I knocked her off her foundation. After having barb after barb dug into me over the past handful of hours, it feels good to get a powerful hit in.

But after the satisfaction passes, I feel like a traitor. I lied to them both. Even if they were lies of omission, they were still shitty and they were still lies. I had information that I willingly kept from both of them, and now I'm officially on no one's good side. Except Skye's, which does count for something.

Bree freaked out after the three of them left and I'm lucky I got out of there with my head still attached to my shoulders. Well, I wasn't the one to leave - she was - but the thought still stands. I've never seen her that angry before, and she only got more furious when I didn't have a thing to say in my own defense. I need time to let this settle, and no one wants to give it to me. They all expect me to have answers right away, and I just don't.

So, as I head over to April's apartment on Monday night, I try to get my thoughts in order. I keep a good grip on the wheel and promise myself that I won't lose my head as long as April doesn't. I know how to read a room. We need to stay calm for the twins, who deserve whatever semblance of a story we can give them.

Skye answers the door when I get to the third floor - their building really isn't far from ours, but the interior is worlds different. In contrast to my neutral tones and stark decorations, April's apartment is full of soft furniture, throw pillows, and a big oak dining room table. It's warm upon walking in, which doesn't surprise me.

"Daddy!" Skye says, and throws her arms around my neck. "You're here."

"I made it," I say, squeezing her tight. It's strange how she's like Clementine, but not. Clemmie doesn't let me hug her often. I can't remember the last time that I did and she reciprocated.

"Mama and Clemmie are pulling the cookies out of the oven now," Skye says.

"Oh," I say. "She didn't have to bake."

"Clemmie said that, too. But we totally did," she says, smiling widely. "Take your shoes off right here. She doesn't like them in the house."

"I knew that," I say with a chuckle.

"And come in!" she says.

My daughter leads me inside, and I hear soft classical music playing from somewhere - I can't tell where. It's so homey here; April's always had the ability to make a home out of anywhere she happens to land. No wonder Skye is so friendly and affectionate. She grew up nurtured. A pang of guilt presents itself in my gut because of how much I deprived Clementine of. She should've always been with April.

"Jackson?" April calls. Then, quieter, "Is he here?"

"Yes, mama!" Skye calls back. "We're on the couch."

A few seconds later, April and Clementine come out with two plates of cookies between them - chocolate chip, which are my favorite. I think they're probably everyone's favorite, but it still feels like she made them special for me. "Hey," I say, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Hi," April says, setting her plate down. Clemmie sets hers down beside it.

"Hey, Clem," I say.

"Hey."

"Have a cookie," April says, sitting down in a purple armchair. "We made your favorite."

I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it.

"Don't know if I should," I say, keeping my tone light as I pat my gut. "You called me fat last night."

Her face flames in a brilliant blush. One I hadn't realized how much I missed - especially when I'm the one giving it to her.

"I… I…" she stammers.

"Just have one, daddy," Skye says, offering a cookie. "You're not fat."

I laugh and say, "I know."

The four of us chew on cookies and glance around - even April and Skye, who are definitely familiar with this space already. The elephant in the room begs to be acknowledged, so after I'm done eating, I decide we might as well get to it.

"So, you two want to hear the story," I say, leaning forward as I meet April's eyes. "You wanna tell it, or do you want me to?"

She chews her lip and blinks slowly. "You can," she says, something I hadn't expected. "I'll cut in if I need to."

"Alright," I say. And then I start.

I tell them how it went down from the beginning. Even minute details that don't seem important, I let those free, too. I tell my daughters how I found April on the balcony at prom. I tell them about our first date at the drive-in where I had marinara sauce on my shirt. I tell them about how we got serious fast, and chose the same college, even the same dorm. I thoroughly describe our good times, because I've always felt that those don't get enough attention. I tell the story of the scar on April's chin, and how she used to see how high she could get in the trees on campus. I decline telling them about our adventures with marijuana, but that's the only thing I skip over.

I tell them about our tiny apartment and what was cute at first soon became cramped. I describe the pure and utter joy we felt when we found out we were pregnant, though admittedly it was paired with primal fear over becoming parents. I tell them how we thought we were having one boy, and April found out that there were identical twin girls inside her on a solo trip to the obstetrician. I talk about how much we worked, how exhausting it was and how young we were. I talk about how ill-prepared the two of us felt, and what little we had to work with. I let them in on the fact that we weren't talking to either of our families at the time, and that was a point of contention for us.

That's when April cuts in and tells them that she felt she had no choice but to contact her parents - the people who raised her, who taught her everything she knew about being responsible. She felt they were the only ones who could pull her out of a hole that was only getting deeper. I listened, too, for once, and finally heard her. I mean, I did the same thing when Clemmie and I found ourselves alone. I called my mom and I asked for help, and it didn't kill me. I should've done it sooner. April was always right.

I know I should say that, so I open my mouth and I do.

"You were right," I tell her, keeping my voice very soft. We've been talking for over an hour, and my throat is sore because of it. "About calling them. You were."

She meets my eyes and I melt. "Thank you," she says, and crosses her legs in my direction.

"So, we know everything now," Clemmie says. "Everything _but_."

"Yeah," Skye chimes in. "Whose idea was it to split us up?"

"It wasn't mine," April says. "I remember saying that I wasn't going to leave the girls."

"And I said the same," I insist.

She looks at me, seemingly trying to decipher what's inside my head. "You wouldn't concede," she says. "You wouldn't compromise."

"Neither would you," I point out.

She tips her head as if to say I have a fair point. It's the closest we'll come to an agreement, I know that. "So, what?" Clemmie says. "You didn't give an answer."

April inhales slowly. "It was… neither of our decisions," she says. "Neither, and both. It wasn't so simple as someone bringing it up and the other agreeing. We had a lot of problems and they all came to a head at the same time. We were young and under a lot of stress, not thinking straight. Life wasn't easy."

"No," I say. "It wasn't."

"I know it doesn't tie a bow on things," April says. "But that's all I can give right now."

I look to her and easily see how tired she is. The cage around my heart, the one I erected the moment she left, is faltering. I can practically feel it, as I look at her soft face, barely aged, and her cozy outfit. She's just as I remember her. My one and only. My Mini.

"Me, too," I say.

I don't think the girls are satisfied, but they realize that tonight, we tried. We came together and found common ground in them, and laid everything out that we could. Without fighting. That's no small accomplishment after the shit show last night.

Clementine stands up. "I'm tired," she announces. "I'm going to bed."

"Me, too," Skye says, following suit. "Night, guys."

"Night," April says, and I mirror the sentiment.

We hear Skye's bedroom door shut and sit in silence for what feels like forever, but it's not uncomfortable. I have a lot of thoughts zooming around inside my head, and I can guess that she does, too. She's subdued, though, staring at the soft rug beneath our feet.

Then, she stands and makes her way to the couch I've been sitting on. She lowers herself to the cushion beside me and looks over, then says, "That was a lot."

"Yeah," I say.

She gives me a once-over with her eyes. "It's good to see you in clothes that fit," she says, smirking after.

"God, you're mean," I say, and she giggles as she lies to rest her head on a throw pillow. She's much more comfortable in her own space, that much is obvious. "Did I really get fat? Like, honestly?"

She rests her arms above her head. "What are the kids saying these days? Thick?"

"Alright, enough. Jesus," I say, which makes her laugh so hard that she squeezes her eyes shut, little belly vibrating as she goes.

Then, the quiet washes over us again and I study her face. Truly, not a lot has changed, if anything. She's looking at me with the same warm expression she always used to, and I'm sure my eyes are melting, too. I can't help it. I can't help what she does to me. It has undeniably always been like this.

"It was good of you to come tonight," she says.

"Of course," I respond. "They needed to hear all that."

"They did," she says.

"Why _did_ we do it?" I ask. My tone isn't inflammatory or argumentative - it's a genuine question. I want to know, because I can't remember. It was such a tumultuous time; it's hard to remember anything except for the strong emotions we felt.

"I don't know," she says truthfully. "We were stupid. Didn't think things through. We looked at life as a lot simpler than it actually was."

"Life is hard," I say.

"Yes," she says, blinking slow.

In one swift motion, I move to lie down beside her. Because of my newfound "thick"ness, it's a bit tight, but we make it work. And she doesn't balk - I hoped she wouldn't. Being close to her feels better than nearly anything else has in years and years. This is someone I know the ins and outs of; every facet of her is familiar.

And I need her.

"I said last night," I begin, speaking very low and quiet. "I said last night that I didn't miss you."

"Hmm," she hums.

"That's not true," I say. "It was never true."

"I know," she whispers, then turns her head and kisses me full on the mouth.

We shouldn't. Not again. I have Bree and it isn't fair to her. It's not fair at all. But with April right here, so soft and smooth and warm, my brain has no chance of reasoning louder than my heart or my dick can. So, I let my body take control. It would've won out, anyway.

She kisses me slowly, tongue working against mine, and I close my eyes and lose myself in her. I listen to her sighs, whimpers and soft moans, and know this is right where I'm supposed to be.

She turns her head so I'll kiss her ear, and when I wrap my lips around her earlobe and suck on it, her hips jolt upward. I smile to myself, tracing small, nonsense shapes over her sensitive skin, and trail one hand down her belly and towards the waistband of her athletic shorts.

I blow cool air into her ear, making her shudder, and slip one hand inside her shorts - over her underwear, though. I can feel she's already wet, which I assumed she would be, so I rub her folds over the thin, damp cotton between her legs.

She spreads her thighs, one foot falling to hit the floor while the other knee lies bent over both of mine. As she's spread open with my fingers teasing her lips and my mouth working its magic on her ear, I haven't been this happy in a long time. And I can safely say that she's pretty damn blissed out, too, with the way her hips grind eagerly against my steady hand.

As she's begun to pant, her mouth open and eyes closed, I know she's close. With enough slow intimacy and attention given to specific parts of her body, she doesn't need penetration to orgasm. I know that better than anyone, so I make a promise with my actions to get her there.

"I'm close, Jackie," she whispers hoarsely, and the usage of that nickname makes me even harder in my pants, if possible. Christ, it's so good to hear her say that. I never thought I'd get it again.

"I know," I say back, pressing hot, wet kisses to her neck. "Come for me, baby."

She grits her teeth as it happens, spasming as her back arches away from the couch. She clenches my hand between her thighs and holds her breath, letting it out in shaky gusts as her muscles relax. "Oh…" she whimpers, turning towards me as the feeling begins to ebb.

But as she reaches between us towards my erection, there comes the sound of a doorbell. Her doorbell. She jumps, frightened by the sudden sound, and looks at me with horror written all over her face.

My mind is foggy with sex and there's absolutely no blood in my brain, it's all gone to my hard-on. I'm hard as hell, hard to the point where it's painful to sit up or do anything but get my dick stroked by her. "What…?" I mumble, coming to an upright position as best I can as she scurries to look out the peephole.

I think I hear her hiss, "Shit," but I can't be sure.

She opens the door and there's a guy standing there with a suitcase and a smile, looking haggard from traveling. I've never been so confused in my life, or more embarrassed. I thank god for the throw pillows surrounding me and pick one up, resting it over my groin to save at least some face.

"Hey, beautiful," the guy says, wrapping his arms around April.

Then, his eyes catch on me. She notices and laughs nervously, still flushed from the orgasm she had only seconds ago. "Alex, this is Jackson," she says, gesturing towards me. I flash him a very strained smile. "And Jackson," she says, eyes wide with alarm. "This is Alex."


	12. Chapter 12

**APRIL**

Though my parents probably would've liked me to be, I've never been a prude about my body. I know it well; I know what it likes and how to make it feel good. But that being said, no one - not even me - can bring me to climax like Jackson can.

I don't know if it's because he was my first or because we were together during such formative years. Or maybe it was because I was having sex with him before I really understood what masturbating was. I became familiar with it a while after we separated because it was all that I had, but I didn't exactly _need_ it before or with him. But that's a moot point now - my hand is nowhere near capable of what his hands are.

As I answer the door and find Alex standing there, my body still pulses because of how hard I just came. Simply with Jackson's mouth on my ear and his hand between my legs, over my underwear! It was that hard with just those things - which is a little insane, to be honest. Maybe I'm more desperate than I thought, though it's not like I've been abstinent since the split. I've had Alex for a few of those years, though sex between us tends to get predictable.

I can't believe I'm comparing these two between the sheets as they both stand less than three feet away. Jackson's erection is like a fourth person in the room - I had been so ready to get him off with either my hand or my mouth, whatever he wanted. I had totally forgotten about the invitation I'd extended to Alex, I was so caught up in my ex. Jesus Christ. I have to pull myself together.

The introductions are formal and stilted. I know I don't sound like myself and Alex isn't stupid. He clears his throat after greeting Jackson, then I welcome him inside.

"Can I uh… get you anything?" I ask, then go for his suitcase. "Here, I'll take that."

"No, it's okay. I can get it," he says.

"No, please," I say, smiling too hard. It stretches my face in what feels like a clown-like manner. "Let me. You just got here." Really, I'm just anxious to get out of this room.

I wheel his suitcase down the hall and pause outside the guest room momentarily. Then, I wonder what the hell I'm thinking. I asked him here to be with me; I can't put him up in the guest room. So, I place it in the master bedroom and walk back out to find Alex alone in the kitchen, standing awkwardly at the island.

"Where's Jackson?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Bathroom," Alex says. "I think he was having an issue."

My face bursts into flame and I hope he doesn't notice. I look away until the heat fades, then smile again. "I'm glad you came," I say, though I'm not sure how much truth that holds now.

"Me, too," he says. "Nice place."

"Thanks."

Interrupting our strained small talk, Jackson comes out of the bathroom looking somewhat more put together. I don't know what he did in there, but I hope it had more to do with adjusting than jerking off into a hand towel. I'll kill him if I find any sort of suspicious stain.

"Hey," he says, a little breathless. "Well… I'll get out of your hair."

"Sure," I say. That phrase makes me think of my hair, which is most likely obscenely messed up. Instinctively, I reach to smooth it down and hope that works.

"I'm gonna grab the girls," he says. "That's what we agreed on, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "Go ahead. I doubt they're sleeping."

"Right," he says, then heads down the hall.

"Wait," Alex says from behind me. "Girls?"

"I… uh…" I exhale heavily as Jackson leads Skye and Clemmie to the front door, and Alex practically falls to the ground. "Yes," I say. "These are our twins."

"Holy shit," he says.

"Hi, Alex," Skye says.

"Hey… Skye…" Alex says. "And…"

"Clementine," Clemmie says, filling in the blank.

"Your ex…" Alex says, glancing at Jackson.

"Yeah, that's him," I mumble. "And these are the girls."

"Holy fuck," he says, then blinks hard. "Well, uh, it's nice to meet you, Clementine."

"Thanks," she says, then hauls a duffel bag over her shoulder. Skye has one, too, and they both look very full.

"How long do you guys plan on staying?" I ask. "You movin' in?"

"It's good to have options, mama," Skye says, setting her bag down to come hug me. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheek, lingering for a moment to look in my eyes. Hers are confused, and I know I'm the reason. I'm a shitty mother. I have to stop letting my heart - and _other_ places - control the decisions I make. I have to start thinking of my kids first, not how horny I am for their father. This has to end.

"You're right," I say. "A few days. Is that good, Jackson? A few days?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'll text you."

"Okay," I say. "Clemmie, come give me a hug." The request surprises her, but even so, she follows through. She lets her bag fall beside Skye's and twines her arms around my waist, head plunked on my shoulder. I kiss her hair and whisper in her ear, "Be nice to him."

She snorts good-naturedly in response.

"Bye, Mama," Skye says, trailing after Jackson. "See you soon."

"Bye, Mom."

"Bye, babies," I say, then watch the door as it closes behind them.

After they go, Alex and I are left in stunned silence. The loudest sound in the room is the clock ticking on the wall, and I really don't want to be the one to speak first.

"So…" he finally says, both hands flat on the counter. "I hope you don't think I'm so stupid that I didn't realize what you and him were doing."

"I- no!" I say, flushing. "Alex, wait. No."

"He had a hard-on the size of Texas," he says, and if this were any other situation, I might laugh. But I don't. I stay stony-faced and continue to listen. "And you were all glowy when you answered the door. Panting and shit. Red in the chest. I know that look on you, April."

"Alex…" I say. "Okay. Okay, yes. But it was the last time."

His eyes widen. "There were other times?!"

"Just one!" I say, my voice going up in pitch. "But you have to understand, it'd been so long since we'd seen each other, and it was so overwhelming. All those feelings… they were all still right there. Right on the surface. It was impossible to push them away. We had to get them out of our systems."

"Well," he says, scoffing. "Great. Did it help?" I don't know how to answer that, so I just stare at him with wide, somber eyes. He shakes his head, asking, "Why am I here? Why did you invite me, if you're fucking your ex?"

"It's not… like it sounds," I say, digging myself out of the hole I created. Well, with help from Jackson. That can't be ignored. "Jackson is seeing someone. Me and him, we aren't together and we're not gonna _be_ together. It didn't work back then, and it won't work now. It was just a one-time…" I clear my throat and amend my statement. "Two-time thing. I'm not fucking him. He's part of my life because of the girls, but that's it. I missed you."

Did I miss Alex? I texted him in a fit of jealousy when I saw Jackson with Bree. Before that, he hadn't crossed my mind at all. We'd broken up amicably and without much emotion attached. I didn't miss him. I didn't have any animosity towards him, but there was no longing, either.

I've saved both those feelings for goddamn Jackson, so it seems.

But I want to get my mind off of him. He's with Bree. He has her, and I have Alex, and there's too many irreparable differences between us. We don't work long-term, we've already discovered that. I'm not willing to dive in head-first and discover it again, this time with the girls old enough to get hurt by our missteps. We've already wounded them enough as it is, which is something we've barely acknowledged. That has to change. Jackson and I will stay apart - romantically - for their sake. We're loose cannons when we're sleeping together, and they don't need that.

"You lied," Alex says, derailing my train of thought. "You have twins? How could you just keep that from me?"

"Well…" I say, tipping my head to the side. "No one knew, really. Just Julian, my parents, and their dad."

"And you Parent Trapped them?" Alex says. "You took one and he got the other. You realize that's fucked up, right?"

"We did not Parent Trap them," I say, then think it over. "Okay. We did. But we never had the intention of…" I pause as the truth of it all settles on my shoulders. "Hurting them."

Alex holds his head in his hands, trying to comprehend what's been thrown at him. "Jesus," he says. "This is a lot."

"Yeah, I know," I say. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have reached out. It's too much."

"No," he says, looking up. "I missed you, too. A lot." He stands up straight and walks around the island, pulling me close to rest his hands on the small of my back.

I smile as Alex kisses me, and close my eyes. But when he pulls away, I open them quickly. Because when they're shut, all I can see is Jackson's face so close to mine, admitting how much _he_ missed me.

**SKYE**

Daddy didn't talk the entire ride home. He barely even paid attention to the road. He came close to hitting a bicyclist once, which made Clemmie swear and me gasp. He apologized, but only halfheartedly to us. He just ignored the angry biker and kept on driving.

I have no clue why Mama and Daddy keep leaving each other on weird terms. I get it that it would've been strange to stay while Alex was there, but why _was_ he there? I thought he and Mama broke up back on the island. I hadn't expected to see him again for the rest of my life, and honestly I was fine with that. It's not like he's a bad guy, but he's not my mom's soulmate. I know who is. The guy opening the apartment door for us right now.

Luckily, that Bree lady isn't here. I really hoped she wouldn't be. The house feels more comfortable when it's just the three of us, but I still wish it were four. It might be babyish, but I miss my mom when we're apart, because we don't separate very often. We're not attached at the hip or anything, but she's kind of a security blanket for me. She is my best friend, after all.

"Alright, ladies," Dad says. "School night. Time for bed."

I might be the less stubborn twin, but I can't let him slide that easily. Tonight was way too heavy to just go to bed without talking it over. Is he crazy? I don't even think he knows who Alex is. That's got to be why he's so upset.

"No, Daddy…" I say, holding his wrist with both hands. "Can we stay up for just a little bit and have hot cocoa?"

"Oooh," Clemmie says, supporting me. I knew she would.

Daddy sighs and looks between us, knowing that it's two against one and he really doesn't stand a chance. Mama would've booted us off to bed, but Dad isn't like that. I can already tell that he doesn't like being strict, or maybe he doesn't know how. Mama could teach him about that real fast. In a good way, of course. She's never been mean to me a day in my life, but I always have her rules in the back of my mind, no matter what. I wonder if Daddy has rules like that.

"Fine," Dad says. "One cup. Then bed."

"Yay!" I say, then follow him into the kitchen as Clemmie sits on the couch to wait for us. She doesn't choose to be alone with Dad very often, or so I've noticed. I haven't had a lot of time to study their interactions, but from what I've seen, it's like she doesn't want to be around him. I wonder why. I'm sure he would like to be around her, because she's great.

I sit on the counter while Dad gets the kettle out, then I raise my eyebrows at him. "What?" he says.

"You're making it with water?" I ask, as he's poised near the faucet.

"Well, yeah," he says. "It's faster."

"And nastier," I say, hopping down.

"His hot cocoa is always disgusting," Clemmie says, appearing in the kitchen. "Water and powder, that's all he does."

"That's how it's made!" Dad insists.

"It's literally not," I say, bumping him with my hip so he'll move. "Excuse me. Watch the master work."

I melt a chocolate bar in the microwave first, then let it settle while I heat milk in a saucepan on the stove. When little bubbles appear on the sides, I take out the chocolate and pour it in slowly, whisking it to perfection - just like Grandma used to do for me during Nantucket winters.

"Well, damn," Dad says, taking a cup.

"You're welcome," I say, smirking as I hand my sister her mug.

Daddy wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You're just like your mom," he says, smiling warmly. "You both got your tips and tricks in the kitchen."

"Well, where do you think I learned them from?" I ask, giggling until I see the look on Clementine's face. "Actually," I say, clearing my throat to wipe the slate clean. "It was my grandma who taught me that. It gets really, really cold on Nantucket. Hot cocoa is her specialty."

"Well, it was your mom's, too," Dad says, not helping. How can he not see how much he's alienating my sister by likening me to Mama, and not her? "So, I guess her mom was the one who taught it to her."

"Yeah, I guess," I say, blowing gently on the liquid I have in my hands.

We all sit down in the living room - me and Clemmie on the loveseat with Daddy in the armchair that I'm guessing is his favorite. It's the one he always chooses. "So, Dad, cough it up," Clemmie says.

He has the gall to look surprised when we all know what she's talking about. "Huh?" he says.

I'm starting to understand why it's so easy for Mama to lose her patience with him.

"You're upset," I say. "It's pretty obvious."

His eyebrows come together and create a deep line down the middle. If Mama were here, she'd tell him to stop frowning or else he'll get wrinkles.

"I'm fine," he says, then takes a sip. "Wow, Skye, this is really good."

"Thanks," I say.

"Quit dodging," Clemmie says, and I'm glad we're going at him as a united front. I think he needs some sense knocked into him. But _not_ physically, like Mama did at the banquet. I'm still not over that.

Nor am I over the fact that we heard she and Daddy having loud _sex_, but I can't think about that right now without throwing up all over.

"You're probably wondering who that guy was at the apartment," I say.

"I know who he was," Clemmie says. "Alex. She texted him."

"What?" I say, snapping my head over. "When?"

Clemmie's eyes go wide as if she's been caught. "I don't know… a couple days ago. Yesterday. During the whole Bree shitshow."

"Oh…" I say, and it dawns on me.

But Daddy is still in the dark. "Who is he?" he asks, finally willing to ask.

I take a deep breath and begin. "Alex is Mama's boyfriend. Well, he was. As far as I know, they broke up before we moved here."

"She has a boyfriend?" Dad asks.

"_Had_," I say.

"Well, he's with her right now," Clemmie points out. "Feels pretty _has_ to me."

I roll my eyes quickly. "She doesn't even like sleeping in the same bed as him."

Dad looks amused when he asks, "Why?"

"He snores," I say, then wave my hand because that's beside the point. "What did Mama's text say?" I ask my sister.

She crosses, uncrosses, and re-crosses her legs before she answers. "That she did some thinking, that she misses him, and to come see her."

"So, she invited him?!" Dad says, voice rising. "She's the one who invited him here? After we…"

"Yeah, we know what you were doing on the couch," Clemmie says.

"And we know what you did the other night!" I chime in. "Why did you do that, if you're together with Bree? It makes no sense."

"A lot of this makes no sense," Dad says.

"Well, try to explain," I say. "'Cause doing it once is one thing, but doing it twice is another. Mama called Alex here because she's _jealous_, don't you see that, you dum-dum?"

Daddy looks at Clementine. "Did she just call me a dum-dum?" he asks, genuinely baffled.

"Yeah, she did," Clemmie says. "Because you're being a dumbass, and she won't swear."

"Oh," he says, then turns back to me. "You're saying she's jealous? Of who, Bree?"

"Yes!" I say, throwing my hands up. "What is the deal with that lady, anyway?"

He shrugs. "I've been seeing her for just over a year. She's around a lot. Clemmie likes her, don't you, Clem?"

"Uh, no, Dad," Clemmie says.

"You don't?"

Clemmie shakes her head.

"I didn't know that," he muses.

"What _do_ you know?" Clemmie asks.

"Hey," he says, trying to sound stern. It doesn't come close to working, though, and she just rolls her eyes at him. Hard.

"Why are you even with her?" she asks. "When Mom is right there?"

"Why is she with that Alex guy when _I'm _right here?" he retorts.

I let a loud huff of air from my nose. "You're impossible, Daddy," I say. "I already told you."

"She's with him _because_ of Bree," Clemmie says. "If you had eyes, you could see that."

Daddy doesn't even bother scolding her this time. Mama would've ripped my head off if I talked to her like that.

"Yeah, pretty much," I say. "Because, like I said, they were broken up before we got here. Like, for good. She was gonna leave him on Nantucket and not look back."

"How do you know that?" he asks.

"Because I know her," I say. "I know everything about her."

"Well, not everything," Clemmie points out, and I have to admit that stings a little - but I don't let it show. I haven't allowed the feelings of betrayal to the surface yet, because they're just a little too heavy right now. Mama and I have been best friends my whole life, our relationship depended on the fact that we've never had secrets - ever. So… the fact that she kept something so big from me? That wound is deep, and I'm not ready to rip the Band-Aid off and face it head-on. We have other fish to fry.

"Well," Dad says, slumping in his chair. "I don't know what to do."

Clementine and I give each other a look. "What do you _want_ to do?" she asks.

"Do you want to be with Mama?" I add.

He spends a long time thinking, eyes roaming the room without landing on anything in particular. I watch his chest rise and fall and listen to the dishwasher running in the next room; if it were any quieter, we might be able to hear his thoughts.

After a while, he directs his attention to Clemmie. He focuses solely on her. "What do _you_ want?" he asks. He doesn't ask me. He asks her, and I think that's important. "Do you want that?"

I turn to my sister to gauge her reaction. At first, her face is hard to read. She isn't an open book like I am, she likes to keep her emotions contained. I can respect that, even if I might not understand it. She takes a long time to speak, keeping her heart covered.

"I… don't know," she says, and I notice that she's about to cry. I shouldn't be here right now. It's not my place. "I don't know," she says again, voice wobbling.

"You guys… should talk," I say, standing. I gather their empty mugs and back out of the living room with a gentle smile. "I'm gonna head to bed, I think."

Daddy acknowledges me with a nod, but Clemmie doesn't. She's crying, though, and I wish there was a way to tell him to get up off his dumb chair and go join her on the couch. Comfort her, hug her, do something. Don't just sit there like a lump on a log! How can he be so clueless?

…

I don't know how long I'm asleep, but I wake up suddenly in the pitch blackness from a nightmare I can't remember. All I know is that I'm covered in sweat, and my throat is hoarse like I've been screaming. During times of stress at home, I used to get night terrors. And right now, my heart is pumping like I'm still coming down from one.

"Skye?" I hear a voice at the door.

I sit up and touch my face, realizing that it's wet. I was crying. I'm still crying. "Mama?" I whimper.

"No, it's… it's Daddy," Dad says, padding closer. "You okay? You were shouting."

Suddenly, I remember where I am. My sister is miraculously still asleep beside me, and Dad is in pajamas hovering near the side of the bed. I don't remember what I was dreaming about, but flashes keep appearing in the darkness. I don't want to be here.

"I had a bad dream," I say, because I don't know how else to put it. Mama would understand, but she's not here.

"Oh… I'm sorry," he whispers. "You think you can get back to sleep?"

I shake my head no, but he can't see that through the darkness. So, I have to say it. "No," I murmur.

"No?"

"Uh-uh."

"Well… um…" he says. "How 'bout if I sit with you?"

"Okay."

He sits on the edge of the bed, barely on the mattress at all. He tries to wrap me up in his arms, but it just feels awkward, like he's not used to holding somebody. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and his muscles are tense. It only puts me on edge.

"Daddy," I whisper.

"Yeah, honey."

"I need to call Mama."

**APRIL**

Any mother knows that when the phone rings in the middle of the night and your children aren't under your roof, a shock shoots up your spine. I answer on the first ring, adrenaline pumping, but I'm soothed when I hear Skye's sleepy, watery voice.

"KyKy, what is it?" I ask. "Are you okay? Where's Dad?"

"He's right here," she says. "I had a bad one. A night terror. They came back again."

"Oh, no," I say.

Under pressure, Skye's brain has been known to lash out at her. Whether it's anxiety in the form of panic attacks or night terrors, it's not uncommon. I shouldn't be surprised that she's having a flare-up.

"I need you," she tells me, and I know that she does.

Other mothers might classify Skye as clingy or codependent, but this is just how she is. Raised as an only child on an island 15 miles wide, she didn't have much of a choice. And I love our relationship; I wouldn't trade it for the world. Whenever she needs me, I'm there. That's a promise I've always made and one I intend to keep.

"Okay," I say. "I'll be there in twenty. Tell your dad."

I don't know why, but I don't wake Alex when I slip out of bed. Maybe because he's snoring like a train. I don't bother changing my clothes, either; I'm basically just going to be in the car. And my pajamas are a pink set of long sleeves and long pants, so I should be good against the nighttime air. I put my Nikes on and get out the door, careful to set the alarm as I leave. I only realize after I'm gone that I didn't write a note - just in case Alex were to wake up.

I make it to Jackson's in just over ten minutes, knocking on the door softly when I do. He's right there to answer it, wearing pajamas too, and I see there's only one lamp on in the living room - one that casts a comforting yellow light.

"Hey," he whispers, welcoming me in. "She just fell back to sleep. She's on the couch."

"Okay," I whisper back, and slip my shoes off. I'm so used to doing it at home that it comes as second nature.

Jackson looks down when I do it, then says, "Air Max 200s," he says. "And you say you're not a sneakerhead."

"Shush, you," I say, batting him lightly on the chest as I make my way to the couch.

Skye is there on the hard, modern couch, curled into a ball. She has her arms tucked by her chest and there's a worry line in the middle of her forehead that I reach to smooth out with my thumb. I sit next to her and stroke her hair, watching as she shifts and stirs, realizing slowly that I'm here.

"Mama," she mumbles, rising halfway to the surface.

"Hey, baby," I say, and she lifts up to wrap her arms around my neck in a tight embrace. "I got you," I say, rubbing circles on her back as she cries. She's so groggy, though, that all I hear are sniffles. "Shhh… I got you."

"Sorry about this," Jackson says as I rock Skye slowly side to side.

"No need to apologize," I whisper, shaking my head and closing my eyes for a beat. "She needed me. I was glad to come. You would've done the same if the tables were turned."

"Like how?" he asks.

"If Clemmie needed you at my house," I say.

He looks to the ground, almost like he's ashamed. "Thing is, I don't think I would," he admits.

"Well…" I say, finding I don't know how to respond. "Still. No need to say sorry. These things happen…" I mouth the next part, just in case Skye's anywhere near consciousness. "Especially with her."

"She loves you a lot," he says.

"I know," I say.

"I don't know any other 15-year-old who'd call their mom at 2am," he says.

"Well, don't say it like it's a bad thing," I say.

"No, I'm not," he says, and I believe him. "It's good that she's not afraid to let people know what she wants. And she wanted you." He laughs humorlessly. "Hey, don't we all, around here?"

I blink at him earnestly through the half-light. "What do you mean by that?" I ask.

Skye has fallen deeply asleep where she rests on my chest - one ear over my heartbeat, just like she always used to. She's nothing if not predictable.

"Nothing," he says.

"You can tell me," I say.

He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. I don't know how one would shift comfortably in it, being that it looks like it's made of leather stretched thinly over wood, but nonetheless - he's extra uncomfortable.

"Isn't Alex wondering where you are?" he asks, changing the subject.

I figured he would ask that, if I stuck around long enough. Jackson is predictable, too, like his daughter. "No, he's dead to the world," I say. "He didn't wake up when I left."

"What, with your noisy ass?"

I fight a smirk. "I am not loud," I say.

"Heard he snores," he comments.

I laugh a little, jostling Skye's head. "She's a blabbermouth," I say.

"Takes after her mama," Jackson says.

"Where's Bree tonight?" I ask. If he wants to bring up significant others, I'll happily play that game. He's not the only one with snide digs to pull.

"Her apartment, probably," he says.

"How'd she take the news about your secret family?"

"About how you'd expect," he says. "How 'bout Alex?"

I pet Skye's hair away from her eyes. The line on her forehead is long gone. "Still digesting it," I say. "He was tired from traveling."

"Did you let him get handsy before bed?" he asks.

I narrow my eyes in his direction. "That's none of your business," I say. "And as if you have any right to ask. Please, Jackson, stop. Don't get righteous."

"I'm not righteous."

"Yes, you're not righteous, you're jealous," I say, then let out a long sigh. "You know what… leave it. Sure, you're not righteous. I don't want to fight."

"No, you're right," he says. "I am jealous. Just like you are, about Bree."

"I am not," I say.

"If I have to admit it, so do you," he says.

I let a long bout of crackling silence pass before I give him an answer. "Fine," I say, though it comes out very stubbornly. "But what did you think I was gonna do, wait for you? I never thought I'd see you again."

"I didn't say that," he says. "But you didn't have to call your boyfriend here to rub it in my face."

"Yeah, that was stupid," I admit.

Skye adjusts her body and gets more comfortable, resting her cheek on my shoulder instead of my chest. Her body grows more limp and her arms and legs twitch as she sinks further into sleep, soothed by having me near. It never fails.

"So, what are we supposed to do?" he asks.

I rest my head on the cushion behind me and look at him with my chin tilted down. "Jackson," I say. "I'm sleepy, and I'm tired of being the one who makes the decisions. I don't know anything right now."

"Okay," he says, standing up. "Sleep here tonight. You're not good to drive."

"I know," I say.

A voice in my brain tells me that I can't stay, that I have Alex waiting at home - and how will it look when he wakes up to an empty bed, an empty apartment? Not good, that's for sure. I shouldn't be here, and I _definitely_ shouldn't sleep here. But in comparison to how bone-tired I am, the voice isn't very powerful.

"I can help you get Skye back to bed," he says.

And where does that leave me to sleep? I don't think he has a guest room, and I don't think that's what he's insinuating, anyway. I want to sleep with him in his bed. All night, with nothing to worry about. But I won't let myself do that. I need to be smarter than that.

"It's okay," I whisper, maneuvering myself to lie down beside my daughter's gangly, teenage body. "We're good here."

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. I don't bother noting that there aren't any throw pillows, no blankets, and the cushions are about as forgiving as boulders.

"Alright," he says, then switches the lamp off to eliminate the soft light in the room.

"Night," I say.

He comes over and kisses Skye's forehead, then kisses mine too. And I can't help it - as he pulls away, I tilt my head and look up with an expression he knows well. He cradles my face, gives me the smallest of smiles, then kisses me once, twice, three times on the lips.

"Night, Mini."


	13. Chapter 13

**JACKSON**

**20 YEARS AGO**

Me and April have been together for over a month. In three days, it'll be six weeks. We've been on five dates, not counting prom, and spend pretty much every second together. It's been a little harder to see her since school got out, but we both got into the same college and decided that we want to go. Pretty soon, we'll be able to spend an unlimited amount of time together without having to sneak around behind her parents' backs.

Although, I don't mind sneaking, really. It's kind of sexy and it makes me feel like what we have is so important that it can only be kept between us. She's my favorite person on the planet - why would I want to share her with anyone else?

I am nervous to tell her parents, though. From the little amount of time I've spent with them, I've learned that they're not exactly laid back and chill. The complete opposite, actually. But April says that she's proud of me, proud of us, and they're important to her. So, she wants them to know and she wants them to approve. And I can understand that.

I'm behind the wheel of my old Buick, one hand on April's thigh as we pull into her driveway. We'd been hanging out on North Beach, but it got way too hot. I invited her back to my place because my mom is gone, but she said that she wanted to get this over with first.

"After we're done," she says, intertwining our fingers. "We can go hang out in your room. Maybe we can…?"

A glint appears in her eyes that I know well. "Should I tell your parents to hurry this up so I can take their daughter home to smoke a joint with me?" I ask.

"Oh my god, no!" she says, laughing as she smacks my arm. "You have no idea how bad they'd kill me."

"Is there a _good_ way to kill someone?" I ask, giving her a quick kiss. "Tell me. Is there?"

"If there was, they wouldn't do it," she says, then leans into me with both hands on my leg. "But can we? Do you have any left?"

"Course I do," I say. "'Cause my girl's got a nasty habit."

"I do not," she says. "It just makes me feel good."

"And I can make you feel _extra_ good while you're feeling good…" I say, lips moving against her ear. That tickles her - her ears are sensitive - so she squeals and crunches her neck away from me. I laugh, too, then say, "Yeah, Let's go get high after this."

"Do not say that out loud!" she hisses. "Not here."

I zip my lips and unlock the car, motioning with my head so she'll get out, too. As we're walking up the front path, her older brother opens the door and greets us with a casual wave. "Hey, horndogs," he says, leading the way inside.

"Jules, shut up," April says. "Where are Mom and Dad?"

"Grocery shopping," he says. "Should be back any minute. You beat them. Do they know he's gonna be here?"

"_He_ has a name," April says, clutching my arm possessively. "And yes. I told them that Jackson is coming over because we have something really big to tell them."

Julian's eyes widen as he looks between us. "Did he knock you up?" he asks his sister.

"No!" April says, then punches him hard in the shoulder. "It's none of your business. Go away."

"Butt-munch," Julian says, then fist bumps me. "Hey, man."

"Hey," I say.

"You're gonna fist bump him after he called me a butt-munch?" April asks, pretending to be offended. "Wow."

"Yeah, but you're _my_ butt-munch," I say.

"Gross, dude," Julian says, squinting. "Never give me a mental image like that again."

"You disgust me," April tells him, then shoves him out of the way. Even though she's tiny, she's strong, and her brother stumbles in the direction she sent him. "Come to the couch, Jackie."

"_Come to the couch, Jackie_," Julian mimics in a high-pitched, grating tone. "Let him live his life, Bop."

"No," she says, taking my hand. "Leave us alone. Get a life. Go do something."

April and I sit on the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder. She talks to me in low, quiet tones, making me laugh with commentary about her brother and her family. She rests her head on me and I play with her hair, finger-combing it away from her pretty eyes so I can see them better.

She scrunches up her face and rubs her nose against mine, linking our free hands together. I kiss her sweetly, just a peck, but pull away when I hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. April looks over without moving her head; she doesn't bother pulling away from me. That makes me feel good, like she's not ashamed of what we have even though her parents would like her to be.

"Hi, Mom," she says, sitting up a little but keeping my hand. "Hey, Daddy."

"Hello, you two," Karen says, eyeing us harshly. "Your brother's going to help me unload the groceries, then I'll be in to join you." She gives Joe a look. "Go ahead and sit, Joe."

A weird silence passes over the room as April and I sit in the living room with her dad. She's not uncomfortable in the slightest, though, as she bounces one foot and leans her body weight against my side. Joe is tense, avoiding eye contact with us, clearly disapproving but not knowing what to say about it.

When Karen comes back in, she does so in a huff. "Well, here I am," she says, sitting in the rocking chair. "Here we are. What was so important that we had to rush through our Saturday errands?"

April sits up straight, moving to the edge of the couch. She squeezes my hand with excitement and looks at me, trying to get me as geared up as she is. "Well… I have some really exciting news. It's about both of us, me and Jackson, so I guess we both have news." She's practically vibrating with energy. "We got accepted to Loyola!" she cheers. "And we're both going. We're gonna go together, and we are so, so, so, so happy." The smile she's wearing might in fact crack her face in two. "Right, Jackie?" she says, meeting my eyes for approval.

"Right," I say, glancing towards her parents. "We're really excited. It's a great school, and I feel really lucky that we both got in."

"And I wanted you guys to know," April says, pulling my hand closer, twined with hers, to rest it over her heartbeat. "Your opinion means a lot to me, so that's why I made such a big deal of telling you."

Joe, as per usual, is silent. But Karen's jaw is working like she's chewing something - it's unsettling. She scrutinizes April, eyes narrowing, before saying, "This is the school you want?" she asks. "You're sure."

"100% sure," April says. "It's a wonderful school with the most beautiful campus. And it's so easy to get to, you guys can visit whenever you want."

Karen's eyes dart to me, then back to her daughter. "What was the reason you chose it?" she asks. "Because he did?"

"No, Mom," April says indignantly. "I picked it first, before I even knew that he applied."

Not true. We chose this school together and applied side-by-side. But I guess Karen doesn't need to know that.

"Then you're the reason _he_ picked it," Karen says.

"No, ma'am," I say. "It's a great school, and I'm going for pre-med. Their program is awesome." I clear my throat. "But… April is important to me, and I hope you know that I treat her right and I'm gonna make sure she's taken care of. You can count on me."

Karen purses her lips. "I'm sure there are much better pre-med programs that you could find," she says. "UIC. University of Chicago. Loyola is not the best, I guarantee."

"But Mom, this is the one we both got into," April says, and her voice is near-pleading. "I thought you'd be happy that I was accepted."

Karen stands up hurriedly. "There are plenty of reasons to celebrate, but none of them include trailing after some boy you won't remember in a year," she says. "If you'll excuse me."

Dutifully, Joe gets up and follows his wife, which leaves April and I alone in the stuffy living room. She wipes her nose harshly, and when she speaks, I can tell she's about to cry. "I wanna go," she says.

"Okay," I say, standing first and taking her hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

We get back in the car and just drive. Without any particular destination, I keep going until we're far enough away from April's neighborhood, and she cries with her head resting in her open palms. "They're awful," she finally says. "I wanted them to be happy for me. It's not fair."

"I know," I say, using one hand to rub her back. "They're fucks."

"Yeah, they are," she whimpers.

"But hey. _I'm_ proud of you," I tell her.

She peeks out from between her fingers to look at me. "I'm proud of you, too," she says.

I shoot her a smile - a big, shiny one. "Isn't that all we need?" I ask.

She nods. And for the longest time, it really did feel like enough.

**APRIL**

**16 YEARS AGO**

I'm still on the toilet when I hear the front door come open. Pants down, three positive pregnancy tests in my hand. The doorjamb is uneven and the door doesn't shut that well, so I see Jackson when he walks into our bedroom.

"Hey, Mini, you in there?" he calls.

"Yeah…" I say, staring at the tests.

Positive, positive, positive. There is no denying it.

Yes, I'd subconsciously known for the past couple weeks or so after I missed my period. But my period is irregular, and it's not like we've been eating all that healthy lately. So, I blamed it on my up and down diet and stress. Not a baby. At first.

When my period was two weeks late, I knew. I just knew. But I kept the thought to myself and waited a few days to buy the tests. They weren't cheap, but I knew I wouldn't be convinced with just one.

Now, I'm definitely convinced. And Jackson needs to know.

"You okay?" he asks.

My legs are going numb from how long I've been sitting here, and I'm cold. But I can't seem to move. "Um…" I say, then let out a shaky breath. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" he says. I can hear him changing clothes, throwing his work boots into our makeshift closet. "You eat something bad?"

"No," I say.

"Period?"

I practically snort. "No. I just… I have something to tell you, and I'm scared."

"Scared?" he says, then appears at the door. He peeks his head in and I close both fists around the tests so they're not visible. "Do we have to have this conversation on the toilet?" he asks.

I close my eyes with a small smile and stand up, pulling my pants with me. "I guess not," I say, then tuck the tests into my jeans pocket. "Let's sit down."

He finds his way to the threadbare couch and pats his lap, and I sit on his legs comfortably. I face sideways and wrap both arms around his neck, resting my elbows on his shoulders, looking right into his eyes. "What is it?" he says, searching my face as he holds my middle. "Tell me. Is it bad?"

"I… don't know," I say. "But I'm just gonna say it."

"Okay."

I close my eyes and keep them closed, inhaling steadily before opening my mouth to say, "I'm pregnant."

His arms tense around my waist, and I work up the courage to open my eyes. I wasn't quite sure how I expected him to react, but I definitely wouldn't have guessed I'd see the giant smile overtaking his face. "You're pregnant?!" he exclaims. "Seriously? Honestly? You're not yanking my chain, babe, are you?"

A bubbly giggle sneaks out of my throat as I slip the tests out from my pocket. "Nope," I say, laying them flat on my palm. "Proof."

"You're pregnant!" he cheers, hugging me so tight that my bones really do pop. We both laugh because of it. "Oh my god, we're having a baby!"

He stands up and lifts me with him, cradling my body as he spins in a circle. I tuck my face into his neck and laugh along with him, finding his pure happiness so contagious. He always knows how to make the best out of a situation, and I love him for it. I love him for that, and for so much more. He's the father of our baby. We're in this for life now. It's a big deal.

As I look at his grinning face and he looks at mine, I feel secure. I wouldn't want anyone else fathering my child. This is how it's supposed to be.

"You're gonna be a daddy," I tell him as we sit back down.

Now, I sit forward on his lap with a knee on either side of his hips. I rest on his thighs and he pulls me close by the small of my back, pressing his forehead against mine. "I'm gonna be a daddy," he repeats. "And you're gonna be the best mom this damn world has ever known."

We smile close to each other's faces, then laugh too. I can't believe I thought he'd be unhappy about this. I haven't seen him this elated in so long. I should've told him sooner. I wouldn't have had to spend the last few weeks so anxious if I had involved him.

"I love you," he says, kissing me. "I love you, baby mama."

I smile against his mouth and frame his face with both hands. "Forever and ever," I say.

"Amen."

…

When it comes time to tell my parents, there's not only a baby in my belly, but a roiling bunch of nerves, too. I've already thrown up once today because of morning sickness, but it might happen again due to sheer anxiety. I hate feeling like this. I should be excited, not afraid. But things don't really work like that in the Kepner family.

"Babe, it's gonna go great. We'll be fine. They'll be happy for us!" Jackson insists, taking my hand as we walk up the front steps.

"Okay," I say, thoroughly not believing him. But I want to try. I won't do anything to damper his enthusiasm, because it's so honest and genuine. I hope my parents see that, too.

"And I wanna be the one to say it," he says. "If that's okay. Can I?"

"I want you to," I say, waiting after he knocks on the door.

"Alright," he says, squeezing my hand before kissing my cheek. "Don't worry. It's gonna be great."

Julian answers the door as my parents are milling about in the kitchen, and he knows we're here to share something big. Gossip travels fast.

"The last time you came to break news to them it went so well," he says, referencing four years ago.

"But it worked out," I snap. "We both graduated _cum laude_."

"You can say it, Mini, you were _magna_," Jackson says. "I was just _cum laude_."

I give him a stern look. "That's still really good," I say. "We both did good."

When my parents come in, Jackson straightens up and sets his shoulders, but doesn't let go of my hand. I know he wants to present us as a united front, and I like it. It shows my parents that no matter how little faith they had or have in us, life won't split us up.

"So, we have something really exciting to share," Jackson says, glancing at me. I nod him along, encouraging. He gives me a smile in return. "Can't hold it in any longer." He's practically buzzing with excitement. "We're pregnant!"

The silence that coats the room is so heavy that you could hear a pin drop. My parents' faces are stone, perfectly unreadable. My hands grow clammy and I chew my lower lip, desperate for something, anything from them. I hate the lack of reaction. I don't know how to take it.

Then, my mom stands. "I already had my thoughts about you two living together," she says, crossing her arms. "But you convinced me that 'living in sin' is no longer an issue, and everyone does it nowadays. I went along with it, because I trusted you, April. But I knew this would happen. I knew it all along." Her eyes are so cold. "Unmarried. In debt. Young and stupid. And now, with child." She shakes her head slowly. "I've never been so disappointed." She points to the entryway. "Out. I want you out. No daughter of mine would make such stupid, stupid decisions."

"Mom…" I say, shocked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Mom, come on," Julian says, just as surprised. "Give her a chance here. It's not like they're 16-"

"And it's not like they're valid in the eyes of God!" Mom shouts. "Bringing a child into the world when their foundations is so unsteady. How selfish can you be? Honestly, how selfish?!"

"Karen, it's not selfish," Jackson says. "We have so much love to give a baby, and-"

"You don't know anything about love," she spits. "Not the first thing. And the fact that you think you do only solidifies the fact that you _don't_. I want you both out of my house. Now!"

With his jaw clenched, Jackson wraps an arm around my lower back and ushers me up from the couch. I'm so gutted I can't think straight. I hadn't expected warmth from my mom, but I never could've seen this coming.

"I hope one day you get off your high horse," Jackson says. "And realize you turned away your grandchild."

If Mom heard, she doesn't acknowledge him. She keeps her head turned away and waits for us to leave, and we make quick work of it. I can't be there with them any longer. It's ripping me apart to know that my mom, the one who brought me into the world and the one who's supposed to love me unconditionally, won't support me.

I stay quiet as we get in the car and pull out of the driveway. Only about halfway through our trip home, as Jackson sits stewing, do I break down on a grandiose scale. I sob so hard that my body folds in half, forehead on my knees, and it's impossible to catch my breath. Jackson pulls over hastily, putting the car in park on the shoulder, and takes me into his arms.

"I know," he says, rubbing my back. He doesn't tell me to stop crying, all he does is hold me. He knows how badly I'm hurting. "I know."

He's angry. Beyond angry, I can tell. But he doesn't have pain to factor in, the pain over knowing his own parents turned him away. His mom has never been around, but this is new for me. And I don't know how to handle it any better than crying my heart out.

"I promise you, Mini," he says. "We're gonna make it. If they don't wanna know their grandkid, that's their problem. But we're gonna have the most awesome, beautiful, genius child. And they're gonna be the ones missing out. We are gonna be just fine, you and me. And the baby, too. I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take care of all of us."

In that moment, I had to believe him. And I did, for a long time.

**JACKSON**

**13 YEARS AGO**

April has been gone for three months and Clementine is 14 months old and getting into everything at our new apartment. We moved soon after everything happened because I realized pretty damn quick that it was impossible to stay in the place where April and I once made a life together.

It took awhile for it to sink in that me and Clemmie were really on our own. I kept thinking that April was going to come back, or that I would pick up the phone and _beg_ her to come back. But neither of those things happened, and I had to find a way to make life work.

During the day, I drop Clementine off with Mark's kids at daycare while I work at the construction site. I use what little money I had left over from my mom's loan to pay for it, because it's not cheap. After I'm done at the site, I strap her in the car seat and she Ubers around with me. That really, really isn't allowed - but so far no one has reported me. I'm hoping the good luck continues.

I gave up the third shift job. I can't swing it if I ever want to spend time with Clemmie. And I need to see my daughter. I don't want to hand her off to a friend for the night shift. Then, I'm just losing another piece of my family, another piece of April, and I've already lost so much. I need evenings and nights with Clemmie.

Today is a good day, because our last Uber trip takes us to a nearby park. I drop the passenger off with a smile, then park the car. "Wanna go play, Clemmie?" I ask my little girl, coming around to unbuckle her from the car seat.

It's a beautiful day. A crisp fall afternoon with a sky so blue it looks artificial. It would be a crime not to get out and enjoy this with my baby. She's over the moon with joy, toddling beside me in pink Converse that I found at Goodwill last weekend. They might be secondhand, but my baby stays fresh.

"Wanna go swing?" I ask her.

"Sing! Sing!" she responds, climbing over the wall that separates the grass from the wood chips.

"Slow down," I say, laughing as I help her over the ledge. "You're getting too fast for me."

"They speed up so quickly," a voice says, and I glance up to see a group of women standing by the baby swings, all pushing toddlers around Clemmie's age. "Everything's a race."

"All at once, too," another says.

"Yeah," I say, laughing as I scoop her up. "You're telling me."

I notice all the swings are full just as the mothers realize that Clementine and I made our way over here with the intent of using one. "Oh, take ours!" a brunette says. When she reaches for the waist of her equally brunette baby, the child wails. "Oh, Brynn. Let's give someone else a turn." She shoots me a dazzling smile. "We've been here a while. Please, take it."

"Thanks," I say, and set Clemmie down in Brynn's place. "Clemmie, can you say 'thank you'?"

She sticks her thumb in her mouth and looks to the brunette with a bashful expression, growing shy around strangers. Always curious, though.

"Clemmie. What's that short for?" the woman asks. "She's so cute. Just a beautiful baby!"

"Thank you," I say again. "It's short for Clementine."

"Wow, what a unique name!" she says, her eyes switching between me and my daughter. "That's gorgeous, I've never heard it before. How did you come up with it?"

I pause for a moment, the words catching in my throat. I could easily make something up - she would be none the wiser - but my brain stalls. "I… uh, I didn't, actually," I say. "Her mother thought of it. I just knew the fruit."

She laughs like it's hilarious. "Well, you're the cutest fruit in the world," she tells Clemmie, then gives me a pretend-scolding expression. "Trust me on this. No matter what, your wife is always right. Clementine is a wonderful name. Fits her perfectly."

"Yeah," I say, beyond uncomfortable. But there's no way to dig myself out. I just have to let it pass.

"You're so great with her," the woman says. "There are never dads here. It's always us, or nannies. So, it's a real breath of fresh air to see you."

That makes my chest expand with confidence and pride. Since our lives fell apart, no one has told me that I'm doing a good job. My mother doesn't speak to me - she gave me money, told me she expects it back, and that was it. My guy friends are my guy friends; we don't talk like that. April was always singing my praises when I deserved it, but I haven't heard a single positive word in months. So, I soak it up from this stranger, no matter how pathetic that may be.

"That means a lot," I say, gently pushing my daughter. "Me and her, we do our best."

"I can see that you do," the woman says, then touches my upper arm. "We have to run. Whole Foods is calling! But I hope to see you again soon…?"

"Jackson," I fill in.

"Jackson," she says. "And Clementine! I'm Jamie. I'll see you again real soon."

Clemmie and I play at the park until dinnertime, then we head home. I'd been riding so freely on the feel-good high of Jamie's words that I thought nothing could bring my mood down. Nothing, until Clemmie refuses to eat anything I put in front of her. Not fruit, not pasta, not oatmeal, not even plain bread. She won't take a bottle, either.

And she cries. And cries. And cries.

The only thing that'll make her stop is the pacifier, which I never wanted to become reliant on. But I take all that progressive thinking back and decide that it's a godsend once I pop it in her mouth and the screaming stops.

She might stop crying, but she still won't sleep. Alone, that is. Every time she dozes off in my arms and I try to set her in the crib, she wakes with a start and wails like I've given her an electric shock. If this keeps up, someone in the building is going to complain, I just know it. So, I resign and sit with her in the big armchair, cradling her close like babies seem to like.

She squirms, fighting the comfortable position she'd fallen asleep in only moments before, and turns her head towards my chest. She spits out the pacifier and grunts, pulling herself up to tug on the collar of my shirt insistently.

"What?" I say, eyes at half-mast. "Clemmie, please… please, I'm begging you. Please, sleep."

But she's relentless. She continues to pull on my shirt even when I try to redirect her attention. She's stubborn like me, and surprisingly strong.

"What is it?" I say, growing fed up.

"Mama," she whines, having stretched out the collar of my t-shirt by now. "Mama! Mama!"

I close my eyes and let out a long exhale as I realize that she wants to nurse. She wants what only April can give her, and that makes a bitter, metallic taste appear on the back of my tongue. She doesn't want comfort from me, she wants it from her mother. She wants to cuddle up against April's chest and fall asleep next to the heartbeat she once heard from the inside.

I'm no match for that.

So, I say, "I'm sorry," while softly brushing her hair away from her face. Her black curls are wound tight, like mine, and I do see myself in her. But I see more of April, which hurts. "I'm sorry your mama isn't here," I say.

Her eyes had begun to droop, but she perks up a bit at the word 'mama.'

"I know you want her," I say. "But all you got is me. And I'm gonna try to be good enough. I don't know if… I don't know if I am, though."

Some nights, I fall asleep thinking that we're on the right track. We're headed in the right direction, and the morning will bring a bright, new day. Unfortunately, tonight is not one of those nights.

**APRIL**

**13 YEARS AGO**

The island is small. People talk. Gossiping is everyone's favorite hobby, and most of the time they don't even bother being discreet. I've heard rumors about myself, I swear to god, before people realize who they're talking to. Most of them have the decency to act embarrassed when they're caught. Some don't. I almost have more respect for the latter.

Everyone wonders about Skye's daddy but only three people here know the truth. My mom, my dad, and Julian. I've heard guesses about her father's identity ranging from Sheriff Kapenash to my own damn brother, though the color of her skin doesn't make sense with either of those two options. I've given up trying to keep a lid on things. There's no controlling the rumor mill, and that's a fact I just have to accept.

When I first moved here, my parents were so happy to have me that they didn't question why I only had one baby instead of two. Not at first. Julian did, right off the bat. He doesn't think it's right, and he's correct. It's the wrongest thing I've done in my entire life, and I regret leaving Clementine every single day.

When I nurse Skye at bedtime and in the morning, half of me feels empty because my body grew used to breastfeeding two. I wonder what Jackson is doing about that. I wonder how Clemmie must feel. Jilted, for sure, but unable to put it into words.

My heart breaks every day. It starts new in the morning and is splintered by sunset. There's nothing to do to fix it, so I don't try. Mom says that time heals all wounds, but I'm not sure how true that is. I don't think the pain of missing my other daughter will ever go away. I don't know if it should.

I take a job working the cash register at my mom and dad's general store, and Skye works with me - strapped to my chest in a carrier. This delights every customer to walk in, and Mom claims they've never seen so much business. I'm glad, because this is all that would work for me. Skye doesn't like to be put down nor is she able to spend time apart from me. We sleep in the same bed, she naps on my chest - we spend every moment together, awake or asleep. It's just the way I like it. I need her as much as she needs me, no matter how exhausting it is.

And it does get exhausting. Most days when I get home, I'm dead on my feet. But still, I make dinner with Skye on my hip and feed her before I eat it myself. I do homework for my master's program with the baby on my lap, big eyes glued to the bright computer screen. I tell her that she's learning as much as I am, maybe more. Her favorite thing in the world is when I talk to her, so I do. All the time.

At night with the lights out, as we lie in my queen-sized bed, she crawls beneath my shirt and nurses to fall asleep. I keep one hand flat on her back and stare into the darkness, thinking about her daddy. And I talk about him, too.

"I know he misses you," I tell her, whispering to keep her calm. I can always tell when she's falling asleep due to her rhythm, and she's slowing down. "Because I miss your sister so bad, you wouldn't believe." I trail one finger up and down Skye's tiny spine. "Do you miss her? If you could tell me, would you?" I stay quiet for a moment, then say, "I think you would."

Pretty soon, her mouth goes slack but she stays under my shirt, shifting to get comfortable. Until she falls more deeply asleep, I let her stay. She likes my heartbeat and the skin-to-skin contact.

"Your daddy loves you," I tell her. "I don't want you to forget that. And I love you. I love you so much that it hurts."

Thirty minutes later, I'm no closer to falling asleep, but Skye is dreaming. I carefully pull her out from my shirt and rest her beside me, placing a pillow on either side of her for safety. I lie on my back and extend one arm to rest a hand on her belly, promising myself that as long as I feel it rising and falling, things will be okay. The sun will come up tomorrow morning and set at night. And our life will go on. Somehow. I'll make sure of it.

**JACKSON**

**18 YEARS AGO**

Until now, April and I have never had sex in a comfortable bed. Our first time was in the back of my car - and that's where we did it for the remainder of that summer. Then, for two years, we slept together in either her or my uncomfortable ass dorm bed. But now, we have a full-sized bed that's all ours in a brand-new apartment.

Well, actually the apartment is pretty old, but it's new to us. I say it's tiny, but she says it's fun-sized and that we're going to make the best out of it. And because it's April, I believe her.

It didn't take long for us to get naked in this bed. As soon as we put our nice, clean sheets on it and laid the comforter down, I laid _her_ down.

"What are you doing?" she laughs, lying with her arms above her head as I pull her jeans off.

"We gotta christen it," I say. "Otherwise it'll… bring bad luck, or something."

"Oh, is that how it works?" she asks, still giggling.

"Yeah," I say, crawling over her little body. "It's exactly how it works."

As we're kissing, April pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it behind her, within reach. Once everything is over, I know she'll put it on. Even though I claim to not have a specific scent, she says she loves the way I smell. Then she asks me if I love the way she smells, and I say I love everything about her. So, yes.

When I kiss her neck, mouth open and eyes closed, she lets out a shaky sigh and bends her knees to rest on either side of my hips. When I move lower, she uses her feet to push the waist of my jeans down until they're around my thighs, then I wriggle the rest of the way out myself.

I press a deft line of kisses over her clavicle, then down between her breasts before taking off her bra. I close my eyes as I suck on her nipples, but I don't linger there for long - I like to save that for when we're done and she's coming down. Because sometimes, if I'm lucky, it sends her right back up again.

I lick the nearly-invisible peach fuzz above her belly button, looking up at her through my eyelashes when I do. She gives me a half-smirk, eyes hooded, and scrapes her nails across my scalp while saying, "I can't handle you."

"Yes, you can," I mutter, kissing the soft slope under her belly button and above the waistband of her floral panties.

I kiss her through the thin cotton and she jolts in response - something she always does. I love that, no matter how many times we've slept together, we haven't gotten used to each other. Nothing feels old hat or routine. I know her body better than anything else, but that doesn't mean I'm sick of it. I don't think I ever could be.

I pull her underwear off and trail my fingers down her legs, watching as she bends her knees to help get the fabric off. When she's completely bare, I spread her thighs and she lays back, hands behind her head, to watch me.

I get her close. I tease her clit with my thumb and blow cool air onto her pussy, watching it clench and twitch in response. My dick gets so hard from how her body reacts that I can barely handle it, but I want to make sure she's right on the brink before I finish here. So, I open my mouth and press slow, wet kisses across her core - on the outside and inside. She's a mess above me, arching her back and lifting her hips, moaning the house down. I get even more excited knowing that I'm the only one who's ever put her in a state like this. She's so damn sexy.

"Alright, baby, I'm done torturing you," I say, lifting up to kiss her full on the mouth. She licks her lips and I know she tastes herself - the smoldering eye contact tells me that much. Fuck, she kills me. "You ready?"

"I've been ready, you meanie," she says, smiling drunkenly as she opens her legs wider.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders as I sink inside her all the way. Her hips rise to meet mine and I moan into her neck, burying my face there as her legs tighten around my middle.

I don't rush. I take it slow and contain the measured thrusts of my hips, making sure to give her everything I have. By the time her eyes roll back in her head, I'm about ready to burst - I can't hold back any longer.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," I grunt, movements growing more erratic.

"Me, too," she mutters, holding me tighter. "Touch me."

I start first, but her orgasm lasts longer, which I'm jealous of. By the time I'm finished, she's still jerking and pulsating around me, coming down with a blissed-out expression on her face. I smile at her even though her eyes are closed, and lower my head to get her nipples in my mouth. They're already puckered, strained peaks, so when I touch them, she practically sobs. I pinch the right one between my thumb and first finger and suck on the left with all I've got.

With my jaw working, I slip out of her warm body and know we've made a mess, but she won't gripe about it until morning. Right now, cleaning up is the last thing on either of our minds, I know that for sure.

Her fingernails draw circles on the skin of my neck as I pepper her chest with slow kisses, and when she's finally spent, she sits up and finger-combs her hair away from her face. "One sec," she breathes, then reaches for my shirt that she discarded earlier. She slips it over her head, ties her hair in a messy bun, and reaches for me again. "Okay. Come back."

I smile and let her wrap me up, pulling me close so my head is on her chest and her legs twine through mine. "I love you," I say.

"I love you," she sighs in response. She traces the shell of my ear and kisses the top of my head, and I pull her hips closer. "You think we'll be together forever, Jackie?" she asks, her voice soft and slow.

I inhale deeply, running one hand up her back to rest between her shoulder blades. I want her as close as I can get her - no space between us. "Yeah," I say. "I never wanna be without you."

"Ever," she whispers, solidifying the fact. "I want you forever."


	14. Chapter 14

**CLEMENTINE**

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. I realize it by accident, as one arm hits the mattress when I roll over, and the empty space would be ordinary on any other day. But today, it's not. When I open my eyes, I see only rumpled sheets where Skye should be.

Last night, I'd been the tiniest bit annoyed that she was in bed with me. I'm used to sleeping alone, and I like it that way. It's not like Skye snores or really moves that much, but it was still weird to share. If we had grown up together, I probably would be more than used to it. But it goes without saying that we obviously didn't, so closeness is something I'm still warming up to.

It ended up being pretty comfortable, though. She fell asleep before me, quick as lightning, and even turned to rest her head on my shoulder. It made me smile, and when I fell asleep I rested my cheek on top of her head. It was the closest I've felt to her yet, so I wonder why she left.

It's a new feeling, missing her. I don't know if I like it or if it weirds me out. But I do know that it kind of hurts my feelings that she didn't want to stay as much as I wanted her to. Did she go to Dad's bed in the middle of the night? I don't think I've ever done that, not even when I was little.

Or worse, did she go home? She hated being here with me and Dad so much that she just up and left? She definitely wouldn't want to hurt my feelings, which is why she didn't wake me. It makes sense. This place is a lot colder than what she's used to, in more ways than one.

I lie there and stare at the ceiling, wishing she were here even though she's probably happier at home with Mom. Strangely enough, though, I hear clanging sounds coming from the kitchen, like Dad is cooking. He rarely cooks. And if he does, the result is horrible.

Even weirder, it smells good. Like bacon and eggs, a bunch of breakfast foods mixed together. Today isn't special, just a Wednesday, so I'm more confused than ever when I open my bedroom door to find him in pajamas, doing just what I guessed. Standing in front of the stove, stirring eggs with a spatula while keeping an eye on a sizzling pancake.

"Dad?" I say, coming around the corner, arms crossed. "What are you doing?"

His eyes dart to me and they're smiling. He's wearing a ratty old t-shirt from college; I recognize the name Loyola, but it's been a long time since he's worn it. Years. I can tell, because it doesn't fit that great.

"Hey, honey," he says in a stage whisper. "Keep your voice down. Your mom and sister are still asleep."

As he mentions those two, I see them on the couch in the living room, wrapped around each other. Mom is against the back cushion, one arm thrown over Skye's middle, her face obscured by my sister's curls. They look so peaceful and comfortable, but their serenity only infuriates me.

"Mom is here?" I ask, walking to the kitchen so I'm not shouting over them. "Why? When did she come?"

"Skye was having nightmares," Dad says, flipping the pancake. "She woke up and wanted April, so April came."

I scoff. "Wow, just like that."

"The nightmares sounded pretty bad," Dad says, completely missing the point - as usual. "Your mom was the only person who could calm Skye down."

"Yeah, I see that," I say. "Why didn't she take her home? That couch sucks."

"It was late," Dad says. "They were both tired. I told her to stay."

"You wanted her to?"

"It was the safest decision," he says, then glances at me with furrowed brows. "Are you unhappy that she's here?"

"It's fine," I say, then gesture towards the breakfast he's making. "Is all this for them?"

"And you," he says. "And me."

"I mean, you're obviously making it because they're here."

He opens his mouth to refute me, but must realize that he can't. He still tries, though. "No," he says pathetically.

"You're cooking for her," I say. "'You're not fooling anyone, Jackson."

"Clementine," he says. "I've talked to you about calling me that."

"Whatever," I say, storming out of the room.

"Clemmie, come on. Come back," he says. "Talk to me."

"I have to get ready for school," I say, then slam my door, hoping it wakes up Mom and Skye.

I take a quick shower and throw on jeans and a hoodie when I come out. Usually, I'd put more thought into my outfit, but my mind is all over the place today. Dad is so doting with them. So much so, that it's gross. That's not who he is. He's being totally fake just to make Mom happy, and it's disgusting. He's probably worried she won't like the real him - the real him who goes in to work too early to even think about breakfast himself, let alone for me. The more I think about it, the more I want to throw up. I need to get out of here.

I twist my hair into a bun and toss my backpack over one shoulder, hurrying towards the front door while keeping my head down to avoid questions. I'm not that lucky, though, because Skye is awake and she sees me.

"Clemmie?" she calls, her voice filmed over with sleep. "Where're you going?"

"School," I grunt, without looking.

"It's too early," she says. "Daddy made breakfast. Aren't you gonna eat?"

"Not hungry," I say, one hand on the doorknob.

"Clemmie?" Mom says. She sounds just as tired as Skye, but I won't look at her. I really don't want to. The only thing I want to do is leave. "Honey, you should eat."

"I'm fine," I say. "I never eat breakfast."

"It smells great," Mom says. "How about just a pancake?"

"I _said_ I'm fucking fine," I say, then yank open the door.

"Clementine Isabel!" Mom snaps, but I've already left.

And I know she won't come after me. No one ever does.

…

I lied to them at home; I'm not headed to school. My backpack is empty - I never planned on going, but I needed an excuse to get out. I can't stand bearing witness to the three of them playing happy family like we've been this way all along. I seriously don't recognize Dad. If only Mom and Skye knew how fake he really is.

But then I get to thinking, maybe he's not. Maybe this is the real him, the one who gets up before everyone else on a weekday morning just to cook breakfast. Maybe Mom and Skye brought out the goodness in him, the positivity that he could never muster for me.

I don't know which option is worse. That he's faking all this, or that he just couldn't be bothered to try before they came along.

I try to clear my head as I get to Washington Park, pushing every thought about my family to the wayside when I see James. It feels like forever since we've spent time together; admittedly, he hasn't been on the forefront of my mind. But seeing him now, leaning against our fountain, an excited jolt runs through my body all the way to the tips of my toes. I guess I did miss him.

"Hey!" I call out.

He looks up from rolling papers and meets my eyes, shooting me a half-smile. "Hey, stranger," he says. "Thought you forgot about me."

I throw my backpack on the ground once I get to the fountain and give him a big hug, tight as I can. He's the one person on my side, the only one I have left to count on. He won't choose anyone else over me, like my dad did. At least, I hope he won't.

"No," I say, my voice buried in his t-shirt. "I just had a lot of shit going on."

He gives me a long kiss, holding the back of my head while our lips are locked. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my body against him, smiling against his mouth until he pulls away. "Damn, I missed that," he says.

I sit on the edge of the fountain where he's working and watch him for a while, waiting for him to ask what I've been up to. He doesn't, though. He's not much of a talker. I figure he's curious, but he doesn't know how to bring it up, so I do it myself.

"So, uh… I have a twin," I say.

He glances up for a moment, saying, "Huh?"

"Yeah…" I say. "And my mom isn't dead."

"Your mom?" he says.

I've talked to him about Mom before, so he's being annoying. I try not to get frustrated though, seeing as he's all I've got. "Yeah," I say. "My dad always told me that my mom died. Well, she didn't. She's alive and at my house right now with my twin sister."

"Quit lying," he says, laughing.

"I'm not," I say. "I fuckin' swear. It sucks. My dad is turning into this housewife or whatever just to impress Mom, and it's gross. Skye is a goody-goody and they both like her better than me. It's so fucked up. I hate being around them."

"That's so crazy…" James says. "You legit have a twin?"

"Yeah," I say. "Her name is Skye."

"And she looks just like you?"

I glare at him. "That's what a twin means, dumbass."

He laughs. "That's wild," he says. "Shit like this only happens in the movies."

"Well, mine feels more like a horror right now," I say, resting my chin in my palm and my elbow on my knee.

"I don't blame you for going AWOL," he says. "I would, too. Glad you came and found me."

I smile, but he doesn't look up. Still, I'm glad he said the words. "We can hang out all day," I say.

"Yeah?" he says, and I nod. "Cool. I got stuff in my bag. We'll have fun."

The 'stuff' ends up being weed and alcohol, and before today, I never expressed interest in doing those things with him. I'd always turned down his offers to smoke me out or get drunk because it didn't seem fun. But today is different. Today, I'm gonna do whatever I want, and no one can tell me otherwise. No one chased me to the park, no one is here giving me advice or guiding me, it's just me and James. And he wants to get faded, so that's what I want, too.

Time passes strangely as I'm both high and drunk. Like really slowly, but too quick at the same time. I come to realize that alcohol doesn't taste good - at least nothing he brought does - but it does the trick pretty fast. I haven't drank much before, so he calls me a lightweight and starts laughing. I'm pretty sure he's laughing with me and not at me, though, so it's okay.

I like the feeling of marijuana a lot better. I think I would've been great doing just that and not drinking, but both together make me feel really funky. I laugh at basically everything and all my troubles are suddenly so inconsequential. Why am I making such a big deal out of this? I don't need to. I feel like I'm floating on a cloud, no matter how stupid that sounds, and the ground is so soft when I lay down on it.

When I close my eyes, the sun has just begun to set. But when I open them, there's a flashlight in my face and James is gone - I'm alone, save for the guy in uniform hovering over me.

"Clementine Avery?" the cop says.

I blink hard and scramble up to a seated position. I look to my left and right, but my boyfriend is nowhere to be found. I don't even see my backpack, and it's pitch black outside. How long have I been here? It's freezing, and I'm shaky - the world is spinning way too fast.

"Yeah," I say, because I can only muster that one syllable.

"Got her," the cop says into the walkie-talkie on his chest. Then, he extends a hand and I take it. "Come with me," he says, ushering me along. "You had your parents worried sick. You're in some deep shit, young lady."

**APRIL**

After Clementine slams the door, Skye looks to me with glassy eyes. "Is she mad at me?" she asks, a tremble in her voice.

"No," Jackson says, before I can answer. "That's just how she is."

I look over the back of the couch towards where he's setting the table with only three plates. "What if she comes back?" I ask.

"She won't," he says, gathering silverware. "Trust me. This behavior isn't new."

I blink hard, mulling over his words. "She's always this angry?"

"Oh, yeah," he says.

"Why?" I ask.

"I don't know."

"Haven't you ever wondered?"

He meets my eyes for half a second as Skye finds a spot at the table. I can tell she's trying to make it seem like she's not listening, but she hears everything. I don't mind, though. She - and her sister - are old enough for these types of conversations.

"I tried to talk to her the other night," he says. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't. I don't mind digging the information out, though.

"And?" I say. "How'd it go?"

He sighs. "It didn't, really," he says, then nods to Skye. "You were there."

"Yeah, but I let you guys have time alone to talk," she says softly, grabbing a pancake. "I thought you would, you know, actually _talk_."

"I tried," Jackson says, looking back to me. "I asked her what she thought about… having you around. And if you stayed around, both of you. She's so hard to read; I never know what she's feeling."

"She was crying," Skye adds.

"She didn't want me to see that," he says.

"She wouldn't talk to you, then?" I ask.

"No," he says. "But I tried."

How he insists on the fact that he tried tells me something that his words don't. Trying isn't commonplace in Jackson and Clemmie's relationship, from either side. But Clementine is 15, she doesn't have to work to bridge the relationship between parent and child. That's up to Jackson, and I'm not sure he's been pulling his weight.

"I think I'll talk to her," I say. "You've still got them tonight, so we can do it tomorrow. Just me and her, woman to woman. Are you okay with spending time with your dad, Ky?" She nods. "And are you good with that, Jackson?"

"Sure," he says. "You think you can get through to her?"

"She's a teenager, not a brick wall," I say. "You've been overthinking her for a long time."

"Maybe," he says. "But I don't know."

The three of us eat breakfast together, but the empty chair without a placemat is the elephant in the room. I wish Clementine were here and I know Skye does, too, but I can't read Jackson. Is he relieved that his difficult daughter is absent, or does he miss her like we do?

When Skye leaves the room to get ready for school, Jackson and I clean up together. I'm at the sink as he brings over dishes, and I hear him exhale after setting a stack of plates down.

"That's the last of it," he says. "You don't have to wash. It's not your house."

"I want to," I say, glancing over my shoulder. "But don't just stand there. You can help, you know."

He laughs and says, "You're funny."

As he makes his way to the right side of the sink, he trails his fingers along the small of my back, right above the waistband of my pajama pants. I stop the circular motion of the sponge on a ceramic dish and smile at him - more with my eyes than anything. I give him permission that way, too, and he knows it.

He encircles my waist with his hands and moves them around to the front, hugging me from behind. With the front of his body pressed against the back of mine, he rests his cheek on my shoulder and kisses my neck slowly and deliberately.

"You taste good," he says.

His lips feel amazing. He always knows just where to kiss, and I don't want him to stop. But I have Alex, and I called him back myself. He's at my apartment not even a mile away, probably still sleeping. Alex might not even know I'm gone, and I'm in Jackson's kitchen, letting him kiss my neck. And Jackson has Bree. Both of us are being wildly unfair to our partners, but he's like a drug that I haven't touched in years. A sample is enough to hook me all over again.

It doesn't take a genius to realize that I'm still in love with Jackson. I can at least admit that much to myself. I don't think I ever fell out of love with him, really. And now that we're physically in the same space, it's completely undeniable.

I'm not ready to say that out loud, though. Not yet.

But I do turn around and kiss him on the lips, fingertips resting on his cheeks. And he kisses me like it's somehow our first and last time, which tells me everything I need to know.

…

When Skye goes to school, I resist the urge to stay at Jackson's. We came to an unspoken agreement that, sooner rather than later, we have to let our significant (or not-so-significant) others in on the unavoidable. I told Jackson to give me a call if Clemmie wants to talk later, then got ready for work as Alex was still asleep and left him a note telling him where to meet me for dinner.

When I get to The Gage that night, Alex is already seated and waiting for me. My stomach jumps and I give him a small wave, then try to nonchalantly wipe my sweating palms on my dress pants. I feel so guilty for calling him here to use him, because that's clearly what I did. I used him to make Jackson jealous and I used him to clarify my feelings. I want to be honest about that, because he deserves the truth. He's always been decent to me.

"There you are," he says when I sit. He reaches across the table and takes my hand, smoothing his thumb over the surface. "You left so early this morning. Didn't see you."

Before, I wasn't sure whether or not he'd noticed that I left in the middle of the night. Now, I have my answer. It almost makes me feel worse, how oblivious he is.

"Alex, I…" I begin, setting the menu down to look him in the eyes. "I need to be honest with you."

"Yeah?" he says, eyebrows lowering.

I inhale deeply, trying to prepare myself. "I wasn't home last night," I say. "I left after you fell asleep. I didn't sneak. I had been asleep, too, but then I left."

His face muddles with confusion. "Why?" he asks. "Where'd you go?"

I close my eyes for a long beat then open them to say, "Jackson's."

"Your ex's?" he asks. "Why?"

"Skye needed me-"

"Oh," he says, clearly relieved. It won't last, though. "Well, you should've just said that."

"Well, that's not all," I say. "She needed me, and… and then I stayed."

His eyes narrow. "You stayed with him?" I nod. "Did you sleep in his bed?"

I shake my head without much conviction. "No… not his bed," I say. "I slept with Ky on the couch, but me and Jackson… we kissed."

"Well shit, April."

"Last night, we kissed last night," I say. "And this morning, he cooked for us… and we kissed again. We kissed a lot. And I knew it was wrong while I was doing it, but I couldn't stop, and I knew it was wrong that I couldn't stop, but…" I let my shoulders deflate. "I'm still in love with him, and I've treated you so poorly over the last couple days. I called you here for selfish reasons, and I'm really sorry I did that."

Silence follows. When I lift my head, Alex is sitting very staunchly. Every muscle is tense, from his jaw to his shoulders and lower. Finally, he says, "Great."

"What?"

The waitress comes by and drops off our food - a salad for me that I know I won't touch, and a burger for him. He eats a fry and shakes his head, his anger marinating further as the seconds tick by.

"I really cared about you and Skye," he says. "I came here because you needed support. And it meant a lot that you asked for me. That really did mean a lot to me."

"Alex, I'm sorry."

"No, I know you are," he says. "And I am. For not treating us… whatever we were doing, like it should've been treated. I'm sorry for not taking Skye sailing for her birthday. I should've done that."

"That wouldn't have changed-"

"I know," he says tersely. "But I still should've done it. She's a great kid. And you're great, too. But I don't know if I can forgive you for this."

"You… you shouldn't," I say. "You don't deserve how I treated you."

Just as he opens his mouth to say something, my phone rings. I plan on ignoring it, but it keeps going and going - and when I look at the screen, I see Jackson's name. He normally wouldn't blow up my phone like this, and I'm worried it's an emergency. Something doesn't feel right.

"I have to get this, I'm sorry," I say to Alex. "It'll just be one second."

By the look on his face I can tell he knows who it is.

"Hello?" I say.

"Mini," Jackson says, and his tone instantly unnerves me. He sounds disheveled, harried, and most of all, afraid.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Clemmie didn't come home," he says.

It's dinnertime now, even later. It's almost 9pm.

"Skye said she didn't see her all day, but neither of us thought that was a big deal. But then she missed dinner, and she won't answer the phone for either of us. I… I don't know what to do. Skye is beside herself, and all I could think to do was call you."

"I'm coming," I say. "I'll be there soon."

When I hang up the phone, Alex sets his burger down. "I'm gonna go," he says, beating me to the punch.

He digs in his wallet to cover his half of the bill, but I hold up my hand. "I've got it," I say. "And I'll cover your ticket home, too."

"Thanks," he says dryly, no emotion attached. "That would be great."

…

I bluster into Jackson's apartment in my work clothes and Skye plasters herself to my side immediately. "Mama, finally," she says. "You're here. Clemmie won't answer her phone. Or texts. I don't know where she is. What if something bad happened? She was so mad this morning. What if she ran away?"

"She didn't run away," I say, though to be honest I'm not completely sure what she's capable of. "Where's Daddy?"

"Here," Jackson says, coming from the kitchen with a concerned look on his face. The creases on his forehead are deeper than ever. "I only had a few of her friends' numbers. And when I called, they said they hadn't been close for years." He sighs, disappointed in himself. "I don't know who she hangs out with anymore. Bad kids, I think."

"Well, she's probably just out with those 'bad' kids," I say. "Blowing off steam. She was mad this morning, like Skye said. Let me try and call her. Maybe she'll pick up for me."

When I do, the line rings and rings. And unfortunately, her mailbox is full, so I don't have the chance to leave a message. I didn't have a plan of what to say if I were given the opportunity, but a few choice words I'm sure would have been used.

I'm scared, but I can't let it show. I don't know this city like I used to, but I do know it can be dangerous for a young girl after dark. Especially one who might be rendered vulnerable due to her life being really unstable at the moment.

"Let's get in the car," I say, then look to Jackson. "Can we do that? Have you looked around?"

"I waited for you," he says. "Fuck, I shouldn't have waited. What if she's hurt? What if she…?"

"No," I say. "One step at a time. We're gonna find her."

The night has never been so foreboding as it is as we cruise through the streets, looking for anything familiar. I keep an eye out for her hair - it was down when she left this morning, but she may have put it up. For the life of me, I can't remember what she was wearing, and I feel horrible for it. It's such basic information. They'd need that for a Missing Persons poster.

But as soon as my mind goes there, I squeeze my eyes shut tight. We won't need a Missing Persons poster.

We look and look without results. She doesn't turn up. She doesn't call. She doesn't text. And through it all, we get more afraid. Skye doesn't stop crying, and Jackson has begun to shake. He grips the wheel extra tight while winding through lesser-known roads, but I know that if we haven't been successful by now, nothing will change. We can't do this alone.

"We have to call 911," I say.

Realization spreads over Jackson's features. "Crosby," he says. "Crosby can help us. He's a cop; I've known him forever. I fixed his daughter's cleft palate."

He fumbles for his phone and veers off the road, so I take it from him as calmly as I can and scroll through the contacts. When I come across a 'Sam Crosby,' I click on the name and wait for someone to pick up.

When he does, I say, "Sam? This is Jackson Avery's wife. We need your help."

…

When we get word that Crosby found Clementine safe and in one piece, my body folded in half with relief. He told us she was a little cold and a lot drunk but otherwise unharmed, and he was bringing her to the apartment in the squad car. He told us he'd turn the lights on, too, so she'd be freaked out enough so never to ride in the back of a cop car again.

Skye is asleep when the knock comes. After finding out Clemmie was okay, I sent her to bed. There are words that need to be exchanged between myself, Jackson and Clementine, and it'll be better if she's not present for them.

Jackson thanks Crosby and bids him goodnight, and after the door shuts, we all just stand there for a moment. Clementine is covered in dirt with leaves littered in her hair, and her eyes are half-lidded and droopy. She's more than drunk. She's high, too. I can smell it on her.

"Sit down," I say, and it's an order.

"I fell asleep in the park," she says, letting her bag slump to the ground. Only now do I notice that it's empty. She never intended to go to school today. I should've known. _Jackson_ should've known. "Don't make it a big fuckin' deal."

"Sit your ass down and watch your mouth," I snap, pointing to the couch.

Her eyes widen as she follows my instructions - albeit slowly. When she sits, she slouches and looks up at me with a sullen expression, daring me to start in on her. So, I do.

"Your father might not know what to say when you do shit like this, but I do," I say. "Do you realize how badly you scared us tonight? How badly you scared your sister? You're 15 years old, Clementine. If it had been anyone but Crosby picking you up, you'd get charged with underage drinking."

"Whatever," she mutters.

"Listen to me," I say, gritting my teeth. "Listen to me right now. I know you don't feel seen around here. But this is not the way to go about getting attention."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she grumbles.

"I know exactly what I'm seeing," I say, because it's true. I do. And it breaks my heart through all the fury. "You want the attention that you're not getting. That, maybe, you've never gotten. And you think acting out and being a little badass is gonna get you what you want. And it did, tonight. Our eyes are on you. But there's not gonna be a next time, because this is not the way my daughter acts."

"You're right," she says, leaning forward. "This isn't the way she acts. 'Cause your daughter is fucking perfect Skye, not me. You wouldn't know what to do if you had me! You never wanted me, because this is what life with me is like. I fuck things up. And I don't give a shit. I don't give a shit about you, either! So, step off me."

I take a step back, wounded. I chew the inside of my cheek and my eyes burn, but I don't want my crying to interrupt this. I pushed a button and I need to dig deeper, but I don't know if I can. I force myself to do it, though.

"Stop saying things you don't mean," I tell her.

"I do mean it," she says, teeth bared. "How would you know what I mean and what I don't, anyway? You don't know anything about me. You've known me for like, barely a week. And you think you can come in here and start acting like my mom. That's not how it fucking works! I never had a mom and I don't want one. Jackson might want you here, but I don't. I want my old life back. I want my old school, and my old friends. I don't want you here trying to be my mom, or my best friend, or whatever the fuck you're trying to do."

Her chest heaves and her face has taken on a dangerously red flush. The anger has sobered her, that's for sure. It's sobered me, too, and I wasn't even inebriated.

"Clementine," Jackson says, finally chiming in. "You've never said… I always thought having April here was what you wanted."

"Yeah, until I had her," she spits. "You told me she was dead. So, what else was I gonna do but make up some awesome version of her in my head? Now that the real thing is here, you can have her. I don't want her."

"Stop it," he says. "I know you don't mean that."

"You said that I don't know you," I say, cutting in. "But I do know you, Clementine."

"Yeah, sure," she says, rolling her eyes.

"I know that you were the first one out," I say, keeping steady eye contact with her. "You cried louder than Skye, always. You were the first one to walk, the first to talk. You cut a tooth first and let everyone know it."

"Stop talking," Clemmie says, but her voice trembles.

I keep going.

"You liked to be held like a football when you nursed, under my arm like this." I mimic the motion and a watery smile escapes. "When you took your first steps, I called your dad on FaceTime and he showed you off to the passenger in his Uber. I didn't know one single step could make me so happy, but it did. You did."

"I don't wanna hear this anymore," she says, turning her face away. "Shut up. Please, shut up."

Her words don't hold any weight, though. If anything, she's telling me to keep going. Keep talking, keep telling her the things that no one else ever has.

"When you were born, I noticed your birthmark right away," I say, reaching to touch her earlobe. "A little brown earring on my little perfect girl. And… most importantly of all, before I even saw your face, I knew your name. I named you with such care. Clementine, meaning 'mild and gentle.' And to some people, that might not seem fit." She turns to look at me with tears running down her cheeks, staining her skin. "But I know that it does. There's a lot of who you are that you don't show. I think you're used to putting on a tough front for the world, because you think that's what the world expects. That you have to do that. But baby, you don't."

She shakes her head, pulling her lower lip into her mouth. She chews on it hard while staring into my eyes, trying to figure out her thoughts.

"I'm here now. And I'm not gonna leave again." I speak slowly, making sure every word sinks in. "I did leave you once, and I won't ever forgive myself for that. I won't. It's that simple. We should never have split you two up like we did. But the most I can do is be here for you now. And no matter how much you fight, or scream, or throw insults at me, I'm not gonna quit." I shrug my shoulders and give her a smile. "I love you. You were my baby then, and you're my baby now."

There's a heavy, loaded silence that follows. I'm all talked out, but Jackson is crackling with things he needs to say. I can't help him, though. He and Clemmie have their own past that I wasn't part of that comes with its own issues.

"Clemmie," he says. "You are so important-"

"You know Mom just told me she loves me?" Clemmie says, sniffling wetly. She stopped trying to wipe her tears away because they were coming too fast. "And she came back into my life like, two seconds ago. And I can't even remember the last time you said that to me. I honestly can't."

Jackson's face falls. He has no idea what he's doing. I don't know if he ever has. He needed a partner through all this; in a lot of ways, men don't come naturally to mothering like women do. For me, it's a part of biology. It's in my blood to nurture my children, like a reflex. But I don't think it's like that for him. And I can't decide if that's his fault or not.

"I'm sorry," Jackson says. "I love you. You know that."

"It's not the same when I just told you to say it," Clemmie says.

I glance at the clock and see it's nearly 1am. No matter if she goes to school tomorrow or not, Clemmie needs to sleep. It's too late to continue this conversation.

"Baby," I say, and she looks to me right away. It warms my heart when she does. "Let's get you cleaned up for bed."

I fill the tub and she climbs in once the water is high enough, then lets me wash her hair like she's much younger. I watch the droplets run down her back, over the knobs of her spine, and she tips her head back with her eyes closed. We don't speak throughout the process because we don't need to. This is the oldest ritual that exists between mother and child.

Clementine opts to sleep in the guest room because Skye has taken up her entire bed, so I grab her pajamas and follow her inside. She sits on the mattress and I perch behind her, weaving her hair into two French braids to sleep in. Once I'm done, I kiss the part of her hair and she turns around and looks at me with eyes full of words unsaid. Words she might not know how to say.

So, I say them.

"Can I lay with you for a while?" I ask, and all she does is nod. But I can see the gratitude in that small action alone.

We lie next to each other, face to face. I run my fingernails down her arm and she keeps her eyes closed, but I know she's not sleeping.

"Are you mad at me for what I said?" she whispers through the dark, as I'd begun to fall asleep myself.

She doesn't take the words back, and she doesn't need to. Everything she said held weight, and had spent enough time bottled up inside her.

"No," I whisper, and it's the truth.

"Are you gonna stay here with me all night?" she asks.

"If you want me to."

"I do," she says softly.

"Okay," I respond, opening my eyes just enough to see the smooth roundness of her cheek in the moonlight; her face looks just like it did when she was very small. "Then I'll stay."


	15. Chapter 15

**APRIL**

It doesn't take much to wake me. So, when the floor creaks outside the guest bedroom, insinuating that someone is moving around in the hallway, I open my eyes and am met with a faceful of curly hair.

In my sleep-foggy mind, I think it must be Skye. But when I drift closer to the surface, last night comes back in full clarity. Clementine, more serene in sleep than I've seen her in wakefulness, is still unconscious next to me. She's on her back and I'm on my side, one arm resting on her stomach that's gently rising and falling. One hand of hers overlaps my wrist, passively making sure that I stay.

But due to the sunlight streaming into the room, I know it's time to get up. For me, at least. My teenager can sleep - I'll let her have the day off today - but I have things I need to tend to. One being the father of my children who has no damn clue what he's doing. He made that very clear last night.

I slip out of bed, sliding my arm from underneath Clementine's hand, and make sure not to wake her. Luckily, even when I click open the door, she doesn't stir. I close it behind me, extra soft, and follow the sounds coming from the front room.

Skye is there in school clothes that I've never seen, most likely borrowed from her sister's closet. She looks cute in dark jeans and a fuchsia cardigan, hair half back in a gold barrette. She's somehow made Clementine's style her own. She's putting on black ballet flats when she lifts her head and notices me - something short of a smile playing on her lips.

"Morning, KyKy," I say, walking over to give her a kiss. I hold her face with both hands and press my lips to the top of her head, and she lets me. The fact that she still allows me to be physically affectionate at 15 is not something I take for granted. "You smell good."

"Thanks," she mutters. "I used Clemmie's conditioner. It's nice."

"Seems like it."

A small moment passes where she makes extra work of getting her heel inside the shoe. Then, she looks up with plenty of thoughts behind her eyes and a jaw set firmly. "What happened last night?" she asks.

I take a deep breath, fully prepared to explain. I had anticipated the question; of course, she's curious. I sent her to bed not because I thought she should be excluded, but because the volcano of emotions that erupted from her sister needed to be done alone. Last night wouldn't have played out in the same manner had Skye been present. I think she must know that, but probably still feels left out. I know my girl.

"Did Clemmie get in trouble?" she asks.

I'm not sure where I stand on that. Is punishment necessary? Clementine knows she messed up, I'm sure of that. Further consequences might increase her issues, not lessen them. But what kind of example does that set for Skye? And should that matter - how she sees it? Aren't they old enough to differentiate each other's experiences?

"What she did was wrong," I say. "Really wrong. And she knew it was wrong while she was doing it."

"But she wanted attention," Skye says, ever-intuitive. "She doesn't think Daddy likes her."

"She told you that?" I ask.

She shrugs one shoulder and gives a sort of half-nod. "Basically," she says, then meets my eyes. "I heard her yelling. Was she yelling at you?" With that idea out in the open, Skye's eyebrows come together defensively, just as mine would do if the tables were turned. We've always been each other's biggest ally. I wonder how different that might be if I hadn't raised her as an only child, by myself.

"Yeah, she was," I say honestly. "And she had plenty of reason to. I listened to everything she had to say."

"Even though she yelled?"

"I think that was the only way she thought I'd listen."

Skye shakes her head. "Then she doesn't know you."

"Well, honey, she really doesn't," I say. "And that's what bothers her."

"But I'm not all bent out of shape about Daddy," Skye points out.

"I know," I say. "But it's different. Not only are you very different people… Jackson and I are, too. And the presence of a mother is a lot different than the presence of a dad. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, definitely," she says, nodding as she understands the point. "I just don't get why she's so mad about everything. Literally everything. She has you now. And me. Why is she still upset?"

"I don't think it'll ever be easy for you to understand," I tell her. "Because you two have lived different lives. And you guys were raised differently, with different value sets. I prioritize sharing emotions, and Jackson… well, I don't think he did that with Clemmie."

"Why?"

"That I can't tell you," I say. "But we're definitely not done with these talks. And it might get worse before it gets better."

"Yeah…" she says, touching her barrette to make sure it's in place. She blinks hard, chewing her lip as she keeps one hand on her hair accessory. "Mama… there is one thing that's been bothering me."

We don't have a lot of time right now. To avoid being late for school, she should've been out the door five minutes ago. But I don't stop her from talking.

"You can tell me," I say.

She won't meet my eyes. That's rare. "Well, you always used to tell me that between us, there are no secrets. But you kept the biggest secret ever from me." She pauses, scratches her cheek with one finger, and swallows hard. "I don't want to be mad at you. I don't like how that feels. But…" She finally lifts her head. "Why did you do that? Why wouldn't you just tell me? Or… or if you didn't wanna tell me, why would you say all that stuff about how being honest was the most important thing to you?"

I nod slowly, absorbing all she said. "I know," I say quietly. My eyes are wet now. This is a conversation that needs to happen, but it's the wrong time. "I made a lot of mistakes. And sometimes, I made mistakes when I thought I was doing the right thing. Those are the worst kind, the kind that come back and bite you. And I don't have excuses. We need to talk. Me and you… Jackson, too. And Clemmie. Or just me and you, if you want. But right now isn't a good time. I want us to gather our thoughts and have a good conversation. One we can walk away from feeling better. Okay?"

"Yeah," she says.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. She tucks her hair behind her ear and I wonder if she's telling the truth, but I don't press.

Then, Jackson comes around the corner dressed in a suit and tie. This time, his pants fit. "Good morning, ladies," he says, pecking us each on the head. "Where's the third musketeer?"

"Sleeping," I say. "I'm letting her have the day off. She's exhausted."

"Right," he says, then pats Skye's backpack. "Need a ride to school?" He looks at me. "I can take her on the way to work."

I frown. "I was hoping you'd stay home today," I tell him. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

My tone lets him know he needs to backtrack, which he does. "No, no, I know," he says. "I know we need to talk. And we will. But I can't miss any more days, Mini. I've already pushed back a handful of surgeries, and the schedule is backed up to shit. They need me there."

"We need you _here_," I say, referencing myself and Clementine. I'm sure he knows. At least, he better.

He opens his mouth, lets out a strangled sound, then closes it again. He chews on his lower lip, pinches the bridge of his nose, then exhales slowly. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll come back for lunch. I'll take a long one and we can talk things over. Does that work?"

I realize that's the best I'm going to get out of this deal, so I say, "Sure."

"Alright," he says. "Skye, you ready?"

"Uh-huh."

"Cool," he says, then turns to me with his lips puckered. "Kiss," he says.

I roll my eyes and push him away by the chest, though I can't help but smile.

"Kiss," he insists.

I sigh, give in, and press my lips quickly to his. He tastes like toothpaste and smells like aftershave, seeming so adult. When I used to kiss him goodbye, all he had going for him was morning breath.

"Better one than that," he gripes.

"Leave," I say, then smack his ass when he turns around.

Skye saying "Ew," is the last thing I hear before the door closes.

…

After Jackson and Skye leave, the house is quiet. I wander around for a bit, staring at the clock for much too long as the minutes tick painfully by. I decide to make something of this free time and, after calling off work, soften up Jackson's place a bit.

I get on Amazon and order as many throw pillows as I deem necessary, which ends up being around 30. I come to the conclusion that they won't all be used at once, but it's good to have options. I order some wall decor, calligraphy prints, and paintings with more color than the neutral-toned ones he has right now. Because not only are they boring, they somehow make the space even colder.

I find a poor excuse for a linen closet and pull out a blanket - one clearly meant to be used as a comforter - but until I find something else suitable, I throw it on the couch to use as an accent piece. I dig out an armful of mismatching candles and light them, then open Home Depot's website to look at paint colors. I've had enough of all this gray and white. I don't know how Clementine managed to stomach a lifetime's worth of it.

I do what I can with the materials at hand, trying to cozy up the house. What helps most is the soft music in the background - that, along with the lit candles, puts me at ease. I'm tempted to sit on the couch, but I know if I do that, I'll likely fall asleep. So, I get to work in the kitchen making Clementine something to eat when she wakes up.

It's nearly 11, so I make brunch. Waffles with fruit and whipped cream, hot chocolate done the Kepner way, hash browns, scrambled eggs, and sausage. I've worked up a sweat by the time she comes down the hall, rubbing her eyes and squinting in my direction.

"Hey, baby," I say, leaning on the counter. The kitchen is hot, so I wipe my brow with the back of one hand. "I hope you're hungry."

"Who's all this for?" she asks, voice still scratchy.

"You, of course," I say.

Her eyes widen as she says, "All of it?"

"Well, I'm hoping you'll share," I say, pulling out a chair. She stands awkwardly in the middle distance, hair falling in her face, shuffling her feet. Words from last night hang over our heads; now that it's daylight, what happened is a bit more real. It insists on being acknowledged. "Babe, come here," I say.

She barely budges, so I cross the room without hesitation. I take her in my arms and squeeze her tight, rocking back and forth, eyes pinched shut. I pull back after enough time has passed and kiss her forehead, then cover the rest of her face in kisses, too. For good measure.

"I know you're hurting," I say, cupping her jaw while pushing hair out of her eyes. "And that you have been for a long time."

Clementine averts her eyes - the eyes that have grown glassy.

"I'll always be here to listen to you. I'm not going anywhere. But…" I take her hands in mine firmly. "Last night? I won't accept behavior like that again."

"Yeah," she says quietly, nodding while keeping her chin ducked. "I know."

I squeeze her hand and nod towards the table. There are two empty plates right next to each other, and I gesture for her to sit. "Alright. Help yourself," I say.

She takes a moment to get settled, to soak in all that's in front of her. "Mom, this is a shit-" She looks up with alarm and amends her statement. "_Crap_-ton of food. How long did it take you?"

"Oh, not long," I say, waving it off. "Dig in!"

She dishes herself a waffle, eggs, and two sausage links, then covers it all with syrup. I smirk a bit; Jackson does the exact same thing. Or, at least, he always used to.

"Did you sleep good?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, mouth full.

"I didn't kick at you or talk in my sleep, did I?" I joke.

She giggles, looking over with bright eyes. "No," she says. "But you snore."

I pretend to gasp. "I do not snore!" I say, hand to my chest. "That's the last time I ever sleep in your bed."

"I don't know why Dad wants to sleep next to you so bad," Clemmie says, still razzing me. "You're so loud."

"I am a very delicate sleeper," I say, lifting my chin and pursing my lips. It makes her laugh, which was my goal. "And either way, even if I _did_ snore, your dad is ten times worse."

"Oh, yeah," she says, stabbing a forkful of eggs. "I can usually hear him through both his door _and_ mine."

"That's what his old roommate used to say, too," I say, then shrug. "I guess it just doesn't bother me."

She's quiet for a few minutes, busy eating, before she talks again. "Do you remember any stories from when me and Skye were babies?" she asks. "It's okay if you don't. I just wondered if maybe you did."

I smile softly. "I remember everything," I say. She meets my eyes meaningfully. "Let me think of something that sticks out."

"Okay."

I don't have to think for long. "So, there was this pond by our house that I used to take you guys to during the day. Your dad worked and I stayed home - we couldn't afford daycare, so that's how things were for a while. I swear, the three of us covered this city at least five times over." She chuckles. "But there was this pond that had ducks and fish and frogs and all that kind of stuff. You were walking, but Skye wasn't yet. So, I had her in this sling on my chest - a homemade one, because Baby Bjorns were way too expensive - and she was too big for it, too." Clemmie laughs again. "We were going to feed the ducks. We'd done it a million times before, no big deal. But that day, there were-"

Interrupting my story, the front door comes open. Clementine blanches and flips around, hair flying, only to deflate when she sees Jackson come in. Then, she turns back to me.

"What's he doing here?" she asks quietly. "I thought he was at work."

I set my silverware down. "I asked him to come home for lunch."

"Why?" she says, on edge. "I just want to be with you. I don't want him here."

"Me and you will get time," I promise, resting one hand over hers. "But the three of us need to talk."

After taking off his shoes, Jackson comes in to the kitchen and surveys the food on the table. "Brunch special," he says, smiling at both of us. "Hey, ladies. How are things?"

Clementine shoots him a dark look and doesn't answer. So, I say, "Things are fine. You can get a plate, if you want to join us."

"Sure," he says.

"Can you finish the story, at least?" Clemmie asks. "We can have whatever conversation you want. But the story wasn't finished."

"Of course," I say, straightening my back. "So, we're at the park. You're toddling around and I had Skye on my chest. And that day, there were geese at the park instead of just ducks. And they were not playing around." An involuntary smile sneaks onto my lips as the memory comes back in full color. "But you still wanted to feed the ducks; you would not be budged. Stubborn. You always have been. So, I was throwing the breadcrumbs to the ducks, but the geese were moving in on us. And while my back was turned, talking to you, one came up and bit me hard as anything. Right here." I lift my wrist and show her the faint red scar, the one I haven't thought about in years.

"God," she says.

"You were so worried," I say, grinning. "You started screaming as soon as you saw that I'd been bitten. I was bleeding, and I tried to scoop you up, but all you wanted to do was chase after the goose and tell it a thing or two. So, there you were, red-faced and running after the goose, and I was running after you with blood gushing from my arm. I did eventually catch you, but you were so mad. So mad! That goose didn't know who he was messing with by biting me."

Jackson picks up a waffle and looks at me as the story ends. "You never told me that," he says.

"I'm sure I did," I respond. "It was a long time ago. You were working a lot, and tired."

"Yeah," he says, then looks to his daughter. "You never wanted anything to happen to your mom."

She glowers at him, lowering her eyebrows in an expression that I'm sure is supposed to be intimidating. To me, it's not. It doesn't put me off in the slightest. But it shuts Jackson up pretty quickly.

"Excuse me for a minute," he says. "Gonna go get some juice."

I watch his back as he leaves, then face my daughter. "This isn't going to work if all you do is punish him," I tell her.

"He deserves to be punished," she says.

"He might," I say. "But there's no other way to handle this than by going through it. Please, stop digging your heels in. Work with me. I'll ask no less from him."

"Fine," she says - not snappily. A little defeated, but nothing more.

"The three of us need to be on the same page," I say. "You and your dad don't know each other." She tips her head to one side, acknowledging that I'm right. "And you almost seem afraid to get closer. I want you to know that it's not your fault. It's on him. He's the adult, and he needs to act like it. And I'm going to make sure he knows that. But I need to know that you're in this with me."

"I am," Clemmie says, setting her shoulders. I can tell she likes hearing me be real about Jackson. She deserves that much at this point.

"Okay," I say, then stand to give her a kiss on the head. "Then I'll go and get him."

**JACKSON**

I'm leaning on the kitchen counter when April comes in, but I straighten up immediately when I see her.

"Hey, you," she says, sauntering over.

"Hey," I say. "I was just grabbing some juice. I was coming right back."

"Taking a sec to think about that juice?" she says.

I laugh, guilty. "Well…" I say. "It just doesn't seem like Clemmie wants me here."

"She doesn't," April says, which surprises me. "But that's okay. Because she doesn't run this show. You do. We do. She's the kid, you're the adult, which means that you need to step up to the plate now, Jackson."

"Yeah," I say. "I know you're right. But don't you think this would go more smoothly if you and I got a chance to talk first? And then, after that, we involve her?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "Clemmie has spent enough time being excluded from the narrative. It's time she gets a voice."

"Okay," I say, coming to grips with what she's saying. I only know one thing for sure: this won't be easy.

"You're gonna be okay," she says, moving to stand in front of me. She trails her hands down my arms - beginning at my biceps and ending by intertwining our fingers to give mine a squeeze.

"Yeah?" I say, feeling anything but confident.

"Yeah," she says. "She's wonderful. And she wants to know you just as bad as you want to know her."

I let my head drop a little, something aching within my chest. "I've done such a shit job," I say, and admitting it aloud is something of a freedom in itself.

"But you can fix it now," she says.

It doesn't hurt my feelings that she doesn't negate my self-deprecation, because we both know there's truth in it. I could have done better by Clementine. But April is right - now is my chance to prove it. And I will. At least, I'm going to try.

"I'm gonna help you," April says, squeezing my hands once more.

"Okay," I say, and kiss her as she draws my chin closer with one finger. I linger on the flavor of coffee on her lips mixed with the innate taste that she's never lost, one that's just simply her. Part of who she is. I open my mouth and pull her in, arms wound around the small of her back, and she scratches my chest gently with her fingernails.

"Mmm, we-" she begins, but the sound of Clementine's voice cuts her off.

"Are you guys gonna come back, or just keep making out? 'Cause if you're gonna ditch me, I'm out."

"No," April says, pulling away while licking her lips. I know she tastes me, too. "We're coming. Sorry, honey."

I follow her back to the table to find Clementine slouched with her elbows resting on the wood, waiting with a sour expression on her face. "Finally," she mutters.

"I just wanted to make sure that your dad and I were on the same wavelength," April says. "Sorry, we took a minute."

Clemmie doesn't say anything. Now, she's staring down at her plate - the plate that she completely polished off. I don't remember the last time she ate so well for me. I'd like to blame it on the fact that April is just a better cook than I am, but even I'm not so dense to believe that's the only reason.

I have no idea how to get the ball rolling, so I'm glad April is here. She's the impetus for this conversation in general, of course I realize that. Without her, Clementine and I would continue on living next to each other instead of together. When I think about it too hard, like April is forcing me to do, I realize what a heartbreaking direction I've allowed our lives to turn in.

"Okay…" April says, flattening her palms in front of her as she looks between us. "We have a lot to unpack, but there's plenty of time."

In a perfect world, I'd make it back to the hospital today. But I don't dare bring that up. If it happens, it happens, but I know my family needs me more.

April inhales deeply and starts right in. "Jackson, you don't know Clemmie," she states. "I don't know how long that's been the case, but I think it would help all of us to know why."

Her words are an immediate punch to the gut. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. Maybe a little ease-in, or something. But April never bothers to beat around the bush. "It wasn't always like this," I say, treading water. "When she was little, it wasn't like this."

"Tell me how it was," April says, then looks to Clemmie. "Or you can."

Clemmie shrugs and nods at me to do it. "She was Daddy's girl," I say. Clemmie scoffs, so I grow defensive. "You were," I insist, and it's the truth. "We did everything together. She rode in the back of my Ubers. We did everything together, when it was possible. I loved being with her. She was my whole world." I meet her eyes and say, "It's the truth."

"So, what changed?" April asks, moving along. She doesn't let me linger, and I suppose that's on purpose. "Do you remember when the two of you stopped being close, Clemmie?"

Our daughter moves her lips to one side, chewing her lip as she thinks. "I don't know," she says. "Maybe like, 11 or 12?"

April looks back to me. "What happened?"

"I honestly don't know," I say.

"Think," she says. "What caused you to distance yourself from her when she needed you most? Those are important, formative years. A lot goes on at that age. Neurons and hormones and all those things are going crazy."

"I…" I begin, ready to produce another excuse. But I stop myself and just think for a moment, recalling the two of us three or four years ago.

Clemmie got braces. She was growing more and more into her personality. She wasn't attached to my side 24/7 anymore, but that wasn't why I pulled away. I figured that was natural. As she grew from a kid into a teen, her face had lost its roundness and she sprouted up like a weed. She started wearing makeup and fashionable clothes. She lost the Gap Kids look and started to morph into someone just like her mother.

"Because…" I say, finding the courage to form the words. "She started to remind me more and more of you. Some days, I could barely even… I could barely even look at you, Clemmie, because you're so much like her."

"That's not my fault," Clemmie says.

"No, it's not," I say. "And it's a good thing, how much you're like your mom. But then… when she was gone, and I didn't think you or I would ever have her back, all it did was twist the knife."

"You were the one who killed her off," Clemmie says. "You never had to lie like that."

I sigh. "I never wanted you to think she didn't want you."

"So, instead you let me think that I killed her," Clemmie growls, eyebrows very low. "Seems like a great trade-off."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I know that was the wrong choice. One of many wrong choices."

"I don't wanna be invited to your pity party, Dad," Clemmie says.

"That's not what I'm trying to do," I say. "I'm trying to tell you why I did such a shit job with you. Alright?" I take a moment to gather my thoughts. "I'm sorry. I don't mean for it to sound like that. I didn't do a good job parenting you, but you still turned out great. Despite me."

"Well, don't say that," April cuts in.

I breeze past her words. "I wasn't confident parenting on my own," I admit. "I'm still not. Back when you guys were babies, April made the decisions. She was home with you all day while I worked. She got to know you first, experienced all the milestones, memorized all your differences. It wasn't that I felt left out… because I knew I was pulling the weight that I had to, but when me and you were left alone, it was like meeting you for the first time. And I don't think I ever got over that feeling. I don't know why."

April and Clemmie watch me with identical, enraptured expressions on their faces. I wasn't lying when I said they were alike.

"You've always been capable," I say. "And independent. Even as a baby, you wanted to do your own thing. Skye was the clingy one."

"Still is," Clemmie murmurs, which makes April smirk.

"Right," I say. "So, I thought I was doing the right thing by giving you space. I thought that was what I was supposed to do, what you wanted. But I know now that that was wrong." I blink and massage my temples, trying to corral everything I want to say into something linear. "And whenever I'd try to be a parent, all you'd do was push me away. And I know I brought that upon myself, I dug that hole, but I have no idea how to get out of it now. Once I got here, I got stuck. We got stuck."

Clemmie is quiet, staring at her fingernails for a long beat. When she speaks again, she says, "It doesn't feel like you were always trying. You always paid more attention to your girlfriends than you did to me."

"Hold on," I say. "I want to make it clear that I stopped trying, somewhere along the way. And it was wrong. It was the worst thing I could have done. But I'm not going to sit here and lie and say that I was plugging away at our relationship, because I wasn't. I didn't think you wanted me to."

"I would've rather had just you than all those bimbos in our house."

"Clementine," April warns, and Clemmie flushes.

"I wanted…" I say, sighing after. "I don't know. I thought it would benefit you to have a female figure around. Not a mother figure. Just… someone other than me. A girl you could relate to."

"Well, you were wrong," Clemmie says.

"I realize that now, and I'm sorry."

All three of us are quiet for a while, letting all the information sink in. It's not an uncomfortable silence; it's very much needed. Once the moment passes, April pipes up - this time, she directs the question at Clementine.

"Clemmie," she says. "Why do you think you act the way you do?"

Clemmie answers fast, taking no time to think. "I don't know," she says.

But April presses her. "You might not have an exact answer," she says. "But what goes through your mind when you do stuff, say, like what you did last night? What were you thinking?"

Clemmie pauses for a minute. "I… I was thinking that no one ever listens to me and that Dad doesn't care what I do anyway," she says, spitting out the words like they taste awful. "So, it doesn't matter. I just do what I want."

"Of course I care about what you do," I say. "If anything ever happened to you… I don't know what I'd do. I'd be beside myself."

"You don't act like it," she says. "You never stop me."

"I have no clue how to," I say. "No matter how many times I say no, you keep on doing it. The lies, the sneaking… all of that, I want it to stop. I just don't know what to say to you, Clemmie, to make you understand."

"I just wanna be around someone who gets it," she says. Then, she addresses April. "And he doesn't."

"Who does get it?" April asks.

Clemmie's face grows red, and the color travels all the way to the tips of her ears. "Well, I thought that person was my boyfriend," she says. "James."

A small part of me knew she had a boyfriend - Bree had mentioned it a while ago. Who else would she be sneaking out to see? But at the same time, I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself. Hearing it aloud, though, is a different story.

"Is that who you were with last night?" I snap.

"See, whenever I tell you stuff, you just yell at me!" Clemmie says, on the defense.

"We're not gonna yell," April says - to both of us. "But is that who you were out with yesterday?"

"For a while, yeah," Clemmie admits.

"And the weed and alcohol belonged to him?" April asks.

"Yeah. But he just left me there, which wasn't cool. I don't know what's up with him now, or if we're even still a thing."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, you're not," April says. "And that's final."

"Mom!" Clemmie says, mouth agape. "You can't do that."

"I can, and I did."

"He was the only one who ever listened to me," she says.

"But did he?" April asks. "Or did he just smoke you out and try to get in your pants?" She shakes her head. "I was a teenage girl once, too, baby. And I know how boys' minds work. You're not gonna see him again. And if I find out that you are, there will be consequences. I'm telling you this as your mother, and because I love you - he does not care about you. Someday, you'll find someone who does - romantically. But that person isn't James."

Clemmie lets her head fall to rest in her hands. She wipes her cheeks hastily and I realize she's crying. "See!" she says, shrieking. "I can't do anything right." She looks at April. "Once you spend more time with me, you're gonna see that. And you're not gonna like me, because I'm not like Skye."

"Honey," April says, softening from before. She reaches over and holds Clemmie's hand, intertwining their fingers. "I know you're not Skye. You're Clementine. And that's all I ever want you to be. Honestly."

Clemmie starts to cry harder, collapsing against April's chest. For a while, April just rubs her back, kissing her head until her sobs lessen to quiet whimpers. Then, April looks at me.

"Leaving a teen to their own devices doesn't count as parenting," she says, eyes steely. "You push and you fight and you find out ways to let her know you love her." Her lips twitch, which tells me how upset she is. "You don't just leave her alone and expect her to find the way. You don't just give up."

Then, my dam breaks. My eyes grow hot first, then the tears start. It's a surprise; I can't remember the last time I cried. "I don't know how to fight," I say. "I give up on everything; I gave up on the most important thing - our family. That was what anchored me, what made me who I am, what gave me purpose, and I gave up on it. On all of you. I was supposed to keep our heads above water, and I couldn't do it. And when we split up, I didn't go after you because I thought you'd come back for me. Who does that? Who just sits there and waits?" I'm sobbing now, shoulders racking with emotion. "I've done it my whole life, just waited for things to appear in my lap. And it has to stop. I have to stop."

I cover my face and continue to cry, not even trying to control myself. Before long, though, I feel a soft grip on my wrist, one that pulls my hand down to unearth my tear-stained cheeks. When I open my watery eyes, I see that it's Clementine.

I open my arms wide and pull her close, and she buries her face in my neck. I haven't held her like this in so long, and I don't plan on letting go.

"I love you so much," I say once I catch my breath. "And I am so sorry. I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am, but hopefully one day I can figure it out. One day, I can make it up to you. When I fix what I broke."

"It's okay, Daddy," she whispers, squeezing my shoulders.

"It's not," I say. "And I know it's not. I failed you."

"But it's not too late," April says, coming over to smooth down my hair. "I promise, it's not."

"I just don't wanna lose you," I say to Clementine. "I want us to be close again, like when you were little. And I'm gonna do whatever I can to get that back." She lifts her head and I frame her face with my hands, wiping the moisture on her cheeks away with my thumbs. "You're my daughter," I say quietly, blinking as tears get caught on my eyelashes. "And I'm going to start acting like your father."


	16. Chapter 16

**SKYE**

Lately, I haven't been able to focus very well in school. It's strange, allowing myself to daydream, because I'm usually a diligent note-taker and always raising my hand to answer questions. But ever since Daddy and Clementine came into my life, my brain has been going haywire. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes not.

The one place I've found peace is where I've always found peace, and that's in the orchestra. I've played the violin since I was old enough to hold one, which was around four or five. I know I got my first one when I was four, but lessons didn't start until five. That's when teachers say that kids' brains are ready to read music.

Now, music is my second language. A language that, unfortunately, no one else in my family speaks except for Nana, and we left her back on the island. She plays the violin, too, and we always did duets for Christmas. Thinking about her in the middle of playing a Mozart sonata, I almost start to cry. I knew I'd miss her when we left, but I didn't think I'd want her back so fiercely when I have Mama here.

But with Clemmie taking up all her time and attention, it almost doesn't feel like I have Mama anymore. There's always something that needs tending to, someone with more dire issues than me. I know that, between my twin and myself, that I'm the one with easier problems to deal with. But that doesn't mean my problems aren't problems. Just because I'm handling it better doesn't mean that my life wasn't flipped on its head, too.

I finally worked up the courage to bring it up with Mama before school today. And it did take a lot of courage. Because before this, there was never any drama between us. Literally never. I talked to her about everything - school, boys, bullies, movies, shows, books, anything. And I thought she talked to me about everything, too. Shared everything. Why would I think otherwise, when she told me as much? But it was a lie. Obviously. And I want to know why she'd be so effusive about how important the truth is when my entire existence as an only child was basically a farce.

I wanted to know Daddy so badly before I actually met him. And I do like being around him, but I'm not used to it. Before all this, it was just me and Mama. Sometimes Alex, but he barely counted because Mama always put him second anyway. Uncle Jules was there, too, but he was part of the portrait. Now, with Daddy and Clemmie to account for, Mama is spread thinner than before and I'm getting the smallest portion. It's not fair. I know Clemmie never had her, but I had her first and for longer. Doesn't that count for something?

It's overwhelming, how different my life looks now than how it did less than a month ago. Before school started, I was a year-round resident of Nantucket. I watched tourists pour in during the summer and the snow blanket Main Street in the winter. I knew every beach by heart and swam every single day. I watched the seals in the harbor with Uncle Jules during Thanksgiving break. I learned to drive a golf cart on Polpis Road, laughing my head off with Mama and Grandpa. I fell asleep listening to the waves of the Atlantic Ocean lap the shore - it was my own personal lullaby. Now, I fall asleep to car horns and sirens.

I miss stopping by the Whaling Museum after school to find Mama with her hair in a bun, held in place by a pencil. She tried a million times to teach me how to do it, but my hair would never hold. We'd drink chocolate milk and answer emails, and she'd lightheartedly complain about her summer workers. Then, we'd go home and make dinner together - always together - before homework and TV time. We had a routine that was just ours. We had a whole _life_ that was just ours. And now, I have to share her. Share it all.

I leave the auditorium after spending some time alone in a practice room, going over a piece that I've been working on forever - Violin Concerto No. 2 by Bartok. Nana was trying to teach it to me back on the island, but I kept getting stuck on a group of measures towards the end. My conductor here at school, who's world-renowned, gave me some pointers and I ended up sliding right through the difficult parts. I can't wait to tell Mama.

So, I quickly pack up my violin and sling the case over my shoulder, bouncing out the door while holding onto my backpack as well. I scan the parking lot for the familiar black Acura, but I don't see it. My classmates are busy getting into their parents' cars or their own, so I try not to make a big show over the fact that my ride isn't here yet. She's probably just running late. I know she stayed home to talk to Clemmie this morning, but she probably went to work at lunchtime and got caught up with whatever she does.

I sit on a bench and look up at the sky. Autumn came fast this year, so the clouds are a complete blanket of white. Red and orange leaves coat the ground, and I kick at a few of them with the toes of my black ballet flats.

Ten minutes pass and Mama still doesn't show. Then fifteen, then twenty, and when the half hour mark hits, I know what happened. She didn't get caught up at work, she forgot about me. She's not coming.

I could easily dial her number, but I'm too angry. I leave my cell phone in my bag and head towards home, only to realize I don't really know where I'm going in this too-big, too-loud city. So, I have to pull my phone out. When I do, I see that she hasn't even texted me. So, I know my assumption is right. She was going to leave me here all night to rot.

I shove my earbuds in, start blasting Little Mix, then pull up Google Maps. The automated voice tells me how to get to Daddy's place, and when I get there, I'm not even close to feeling calmer. In fact, I might even be more irritated, because the walk was longer than I anticipated and now I'm tired and sweaty.

On the way, I debated veering off the path and making a scene like my sister did. What would they do if I just didn't show up? Would they call the police like they did with Clementine, or would they trust that I'd come home in the end, because I'm me?

The answer doesn't matter, because I chicken out. I could never pull it off. I might be hot now, but once the sun goes down, my pink cardigan won't be enough to keep me warm. And what if random strangers came up to me? What if I got kidnapped? No way. I might not be as rebellious as my sister, but I'm not as stupid, either. I have common sense. And my common sense tells me to go home.

After riding the elevator, I pound my way down the hall until I get to Daddy's unit. I use the key he made for me and push open the door, to be met with warmth and yellow light immediately. I smell dinner cooking and hear Mama laughing along with the low rumble of Daddy's voice, but those sounds stop once I kick my shoes off and throw my backpack to the floor. I keep my violin in my hands. I might be irate, but I'll never be furious enough to manhandle my prized possession.

I turn my head to find the three of them - Mama, Daddy, and Clemmie - sitting on the floor in the living room with bunches of photo albums open in front of them. Daddy and Clemmie are looking at me with no discernible expression on their faces, but Mama realizes what she did as soon as we lock eyes.

"Oh, Ky!" she exclaims, one dramatic hand to her heart. "Oh, god. Oh, no. Sweetie… I'm so sorry. I swear, I didn't forget you. Time got away from me, and-"

"You did so forget me," I say, wrapping my arms tighter around my instrument case.

Mama glances at the clock and sees what time it is. Past 6, almost 7. She should've picked me up two hours ago. She knows she messed up. What she doesn't know, though, is how bad I'm hurting over it.

"Oh, KyKy, I'm really sorry," she says. "Today's been so crazy. Do you wanna get comfy and come look at pictures with us? Dinner's almost ready. We're having lasagna."

"No. Thanks," I say tersely. "And I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry?" Mama says. "What did you have for lunch?"

"Dad didn't help with the lasagna," Clemmie says with a giggle. "Mom made it. So, it'll be good."

"Yeah, I know," I spit. "I've had it before. I'm just not hungry. I have homework to do."

"Well…" Mama says, straining. "Okay. I'll come by in a bit."

I ignore her and head down the hall to a room that's not even mine. I'm tired of staying in Clemmie's room, but it doesn't seem like me and Mama are going home anytime soon. I had just begun to set up my space, hang pictures and lights to make my room pretty, before it was ripped away from me. I didn't even get settled in the place I never wanted to move to. And now, she made yet another decision for the both of us. That we'll be staying here. I can't even sulk in peace.

I want my island back. It was rare, but when me and Mama got in arguments, I could call Uncle Jules and we'd drive around until I cooled off. I can't do that now.

Well, me and him can't drive around. But I guess I can still call him. I don't know why that idea never came to me before; my brain was probably too busy with everything else. But I do it now. I dial the number that I know by heart and wait for the familiar sound of my uncle's voice.

"Skye Blue?" he says, after the second ring. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah," I say, already sniffling. Hearing the nickname that only he uses for me makes me cry. I miss my old life. "It's me."

"Hey…" he says. "You okay?"

"No," I whimper.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything," I murmur.

"Where's your mom?"

"In the living room with her new family," I say, wiping my nose with my hand.

"And where are you?"

"In my new sister's bedroom, avoiding them. Mama forgot to pick me up from school today. I was there by myself, just waiting and waiting for hours. She left me. She's never done that. She would have never done that before… before all this. It sucked."

"Gah, that does suck," Uncle Jules says. "But you know your mom. It was just an oversight. She's getting old. She didn't mean to leave you there, you know that."

"She still did it, though," I say, blinking hard as tears stream down my cheeks. "She ignores me now. She doesn't care about me anymore."

"Oh, Blue, that's not true," Uncle Jules says. "That's about the craziest thing I've ever heard you say, and I've known you for a long-ass time."

"It is true, though," I say, pinching my eyes shut.

My shoulders rack with sobs, and I try to picture Madaket Beach - my favorite one. I wish I was there right now, so bad. The sand is soft and even when the water's cold, it's still perfect. I'm a fish by nature; I don't care what temperature the water is, I'll always go in. Mama always came with me, too. She was never one of those moms who sat on a towel with sunglasses and a book and said the water was too cold. She got in, too, doing handstands and flips and tossing me into the air when I was small.

I don't know how it's possible, but she's in the next room and I miss her. I can hear her voice, and I miss her.

"You're getting used to a lot of new stuff right now," Uncle Jules says. "I can't imagine how hard it must be."

"It's really hard."

"But is there anything good?" he asks. "I knew your dad once. I liked him."

"Yeah, he's cool," I say quietly. "I like him, too."

"But he's taking your time away from Mom."

"Yeah," I say, hanging my head. "Am I stupid? Am I acting like a total baby?"

"No, no," he says. "I think what you're feeling is normal, Blue. You spent fourteen years just you and Mom. And now, two other people are vying for her attention. You never had to fight for it before, and now you do."

I stay quiet for a moment, happy that he's acknowledging what I'm feeling. I feel a little less crazy and needy now. "I don't even like Chicago," I say. "I wanna go back to the island."

"Nah," he says. "You don't wanna come back here. Nana is making me dig up the entire garden and replant the annuals before it snows. If you were here, you'd be saddled with that job."

I laugh, even though it comes out watery and snotty. "You can say no to her, you know," I say. "You're not a kid."

"And get the life smacked out of me? No, thank you," he says, and I laugh some more. "There's my favorite laugh," he says. "Have you talked to your mom about how you're feeling?"

"Not yet. But we're gonna have a big talk soon."

"Ooh, a big talk," he says. "Just hearing that sends me into fight or flight mode."

I giggle some more. "You're so dumb," I say.

"Maybe so, but it runs in the family," he says, which makes me roll my eyes.

I sigh, tracing the ankle band of my sock while hoping he doesn't have to get off the phone anytime soon. "I just feel dumb," I say. "Because I spent so long wishing for what I got. Like my dad, and my sister… even though I never knew she existed. And now, I don't want it."

"Is that true, though?" Uncle Jules asks. "I think you want it. It's just a lot to get used to. It won't happen overnight."

"I know," I say. "But I liked things the way they were."

"The grass is always greener," he says, and my shoulders deflate because I know he's right, but I don't want to admit it.

"I miss Mama," I say. "But that's so selfish. Because Clementine went her whole entire life without her. I've only gone like, a couple days. And I can't handle it."

"You've never known any different," he says. "It's okay to feel like that. And it's okay to be jealous, too."

"I'm not jealous," I say quickly.

"Okay," he says, but I know he doesn't mean it.

"I want to come back," I say, lips barely moving. If the phone weren't pressed right to my cheek, I doubt he would hear me. "I miss everyone, and I miss home."

"I think that's your home now, Blue."

"Yeah, but…" I sigh. "I miss my _old_ home. And I wanna come back. "

"Well, pass it by your mom. I will, too, when I talk to her next. Sound good?"

"Yeah."

I lift my head when the bedroom door comes open, no knock. Mama's head appears and I see she's wearing a hopeful expression - she wants to talk now. I can tell.

"I gotta go," I say into the phone. "She's here."

"Uh-oh," Uncle Jules says. "Big talk."

"Yeah."

"Good luck," he says. "I love you, Blue. You can always call."

"Okay. I know. Love you, too."

I hang up the phone and meet Mama's eyes as she gently closes the door. She leans against it for a moment, hands behind her, and her face softens when she says, "Uncle Jules?"

I nod.

"He's always the best to call when you're mad at me, huh?" she says.

I cross my arms and the phone clatters to the floor. I don't bother picking it up. "I'm not mad at you," I say, turning away.

"Your body language says differently," she says. "And it's okay, Ky. You can be mad at me. But we do need to talk."

Then, I cover my face, inhale deeply, and break down.

**APRIL**

Seeing Skye cry is one of my least favorite things in the entire world. Her pain is mine, and it has been since she was a baby. And the way she looks right now, crumpled into herself as the sobs take over, reminds me of when she was small. She was never afraid to let her emotions take over - she always let me know what she was feeling, whether that was happiness, anger, or sadness - and she felt everything with such intensity. That much hasn't changed, but she's become more difficult to comfort. Not in the sense that I can't soothe her, but her problems have grown from toddler issues like a stolen shovel in the sandbox to things much more layered and complex.

I wrap my arm around her and, for a while, let her cry it out. As long as she knows I'm here for her, that's all I can ask for. And this is better than bottling everything up, which she has been known to do for the sake of keeping a happy face. It's one or the other with my complicated second-born, feeling either everything or nothing. She gets her expressive nature from me. Containing her emotions in the interest of keeping the boat steady is all Jackson. I've always known that.

"Shhh, shhh. It's okay, baby," I say, circling both arms around her bony shoulders. "I know. I know."

Her breath hitches in her throat and leaves sticky pockets of silence, the smooth pattern interrupted by how hard she's crying. She hiccups with the force of it all and moans; I feel the wetness of her tears soak through my t-shirt. I let my face fall as I keep her close; she's hurting worse than I imagined.

I didn't assume she'd take all this change without hurdles to jump over, but she'd made it seem like she was enjoying everything new. I should've known better, but I was distracted with my own deep involvement with Jackson and Clementine. It's not that I forgot about Skye, but she was who I counted on to be okay. I realize now that I was expecting too much of her. I should've checked in, like I've always done. It was wrong not to.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, kissing her temple. I let my lips linger, shutting my eyes while pressing my lips to her skin again and again. "I'm so sorry, Ky. It's really hard. Isn't it?"

She nods shakily, still blubbering. And I let her. "Y-you for.. forgot me!" she stammers.

There's no use denying it. I wouldn't use the word 'forgot,' because she _was _on my mind. Just not at the forefront, like everything else that transpired today. Lately, she's been handling herself so maturely. Doing everything on her own like a mini-adult. But she's 15, and a young 15 at that. She's still a child. My baby.

"I'm sorry," I say, because it's all I should say. No excuses, no altering her statements. From her perspective, I forgot her, and that stung worse than anything else that's happened so far. "I am so sorry. You have my word that it will never happen again."

She pulls away and looks at me with puffy eyes, wet cheeks, and a runny nose. She's never looked more like her toddler self, but I don't say so. Because behind her eyes is an ember of anger that I don't know if I've ever seen lit up before.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" she says, lower lip wobbling. "You might not be."

"Oh, Skye…"

"No," she says, crossing her arms. "I don't like it when you say my name like that. I'm right. Because… because you lied to me for my whole life. After you spewed all that… all that stuff about how important the truth is. You lied!"

"I know," I admit.

"Why did you do it?" she asks.

If it were Clementine, her voice would have come out as a fierce demand. But for Skye, it exits her mouth a desperate whimper. I've wounded her, and that hurts more than Clementine spearing me with her curse words. Those are a defensive mechanism, guarding her heart. While Skye's heart lies on the table, beating and vulnerable, broken.

"I thought I was protecting you," I say. "You have to understand, Ky, how important your happiness is to me. I didn't tell you about Clementine because I didn't think the four of us would be together again. To me, that chapter was closed. It broke my heart to close it, but I had to. For the sake of moving on, and for your sake."

"For my sake?!" she says, voice rising in pitch. "How does that even make sense?"

"I didn't think your dad wanted any part in having a family," I say. "It was both of our decisions to split you two up. Somehow both and neither. Neither of us _wanted_ to do it, but we were young and stupid. It seemed feasible, until it actually happened. And afterwards, we were both too proud to take it back. We were stupid, Skye. Very stupid. All I can do now is apologize for it."

"But that's not the point," she says, wringing her hands. "I wanna know why… why you'd always say that stuff about the truth. You never had to hammer it so hard. You could've just left it alone and taught me other lessons. But you always made it seem like you were so transparent. That's why it makes me feel so bad to know that you weren't. Because what else were you hiding from me?"

"Nothing," I say emphatically, eyes wide. "I was honest about everything else. Everything, I swear, except the biggest thing. And I know those words might not mean much to you now, and you might not believe me, but it's true. I never lied to you about anything else. About how much I loved - _love _\- your dad. About how much I love you, how you made me see life in a new way. All of that was true. Everything was true."

"Except for the fact that I have a twin sister and you and Daddy ripped us apart," she grumbles.

"Yes," I say. "And that was a horrible decision to follow through with. But how could I tell you, Skye? I didn't know what Clemmie and Jackson's life looked like. I didn't know if he told her about you, though I could only assume he didn't. We'd gone years without communicating. I thought it would be forever. If I told you, I thought you'd seek him out… and then, you'd get hurt. And that was the last thing I wanted, for you to get hurt."

"Well, how do you think I feel now?" she asks.

"I know," I say quietly. "I know. Nothing went as we planned."

"Yeah, really."

Skye presses her lips together and lifts her eyes to the ceiling. The overhead light reflects against the deep brown, the rich color of the earth, and I want nothing more than to reach out and hold her. But I refrain, because for the first time in a long time, I don't think that's what she wants right now.

"I don't like it here," she says after a while. Her eyes descend and land on my own. "You're different here. Everything is different here. You forgot me at school. Back home… that would have never happened back home." She blinks and two tears fall. "I wanna go back to the island."

"You do?" I ask. "To stay?"

"I don't know," she says. "But I wanna go home."

I sigh, long and drawn-out. Then, I say, "Okay. We'll see."

…

There's no solution that will come for me and Skye tonight, and that doesn't sit right with me. I don't like going to bed angry with anyone, but with her it feels especially wrong. But I know that pestering won't get me anywhere. Her thoughts should simmer and she needs time to cool down on her own clock. I can't force it or help her along. I have to leave her alone, and that's difficult. I'm not used to leaving her alone.

After dinner with just Clementine, Jackson, and myself, Clemmie leaves to take a shower and says that she'll stay in the guest bedroom again. I appreciate the gesture and tell her so with a soft smile, and she gives me one back. At least I have one twin on my side tonight.

Once Jackson and I are alone in the kitchen, we clean up without words. I'm exhausted, all of this emotional confrontation having taken a lot out of me today, and he can tell.

"Skye isn't okay, is she?" he asks, drying the last plate.

"No," I say, exhaling loudly.

"Yeah," he says, setting the plate in the cupboard where it belongs. "It's a lot to get used to… for all of us."

"Definitely," I say, then meet his eyes. He was already looking at me, the expression on his face soft and warm. I could get lost in it, and I find myself wanting to. Very badly.

He must read my mind, because he says, "Bree called this morning while I was doing rounds. I couldn't answer, so she texted. She broke up with me."

"Ah, darn," I say, though the corners of my lips pull up in an insistent smile.

"I know, right," he says, then shakes his head. "No, I don't wanna be mean."

"She's a person with feelings, too."

"Everybody and their damn feelings."

I giggle softly, rubbing my face with both hands. "Alex broke up with me, too," I say. "Did I tell you that?" He shakes his head no. "Yeah. Last night. I guess everything else overshadowed it, which was basically the reason he ended things. I can't blame him."

"I can't, either," Jackson says. "And I can't blame Bree."

"No," I say.

He takes a step closer and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear slowly, with care. As he does, he traces the shell of it and sends a shudder down my spine - he knows very well how sensitive my ears are. That was entirely deliberate.

"Mini," he says, resting his forehead against mine.

We're breathing each other's air now. My eyes flutter, taking in his presence and wanting nothing more than to let him swallow me whole.

"Mmm."

"Can I take you to bed?"

I open my eyes fully and get lost in his. When I say yes, he wastes no time in lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and break out in a wild smile.

In his bedroom, Jackson locks the door behind us. We both know that won't do much to quell the noise, but at the very least it's comforting to know we won't get walked in on. He lingers at the door and looks over his shoulder to where I've found myself, on his bed with my hands braced behind me, waiting on him to make the first move.

"You're so beautiful," he tells me, turning completely around. He crosses the room slowly and leaves the small lamp on - we're mostly shadows and shapes in the dim light, but that's all we need. We already know each other by heart.

He lifts me by the armpits and switches places with me; now, he's sitting and I'm standing between his widespread knees, heart hammering. Slowly, fluidly, he takes the bottom of my shirt in his hands and lifts it over my head, leaving me in a dark blue bra and jeans.

"So beautiful," he says again.

My body has changed significantly since we were in our 20s. Everyone's does. I'm not ashamed, simply conscious of it as he skims over my skin with his eyes first - then his hands. His fingers glide across the swells of my breasts, over my bra, and trace the xylophone of my ribs one by one. He holds my waist in both hands, those big hands, and leans forward to press his lips against my sternum. I become covered in chills, coated with them, when I feel his tongue against me as his mouth opens wider, and I plant my hands on his shoulders to steady myself.

Expertly, he undoes the clasp of my bra and tosses it gently aside, pulling me onto his lap soon after. With both of my shoulder blades in his hands, he sucks on my nipples with slow intensity, never breaking eye contact. I let my mouth fall open, eyebrows shooting up, as sparks zip to my core. The stubble on his chin grazes my soft, moon-pale skin, and makes me shudder.

His fingers trail up and down my back, grazing my skin with his nails as he goes. He kisses my nipples, wet and thorough, while his hands explore lower, rediscovering territory they were once very familiar with.

With his mouth open and hot on my breasts, he slips his hands inside the gapping back of my jeans, yanking me closer with one confident thrust. Inside my underwear, he grips my cheeks tightly, two firm handfuls, and I can't help but moan - my neck falling to one side bonelessly. I haven't been touched this sensually in years. Not since the last time he did it.

"Stand up, baby," he whispers, lifting his head. His lips are wet and his face is flushed; he's just as worked up as I am, and I love it.

I stand as he asked and he unbuttons my jeans, sliding them down my hips afterwards. He caresses my legs as I step out of my pants and cups my ass again, this time harder. When he looks up at me, his eyes are so dark they're nearly black - all pupils. I smile at the sight, proud of what state I'm still able to put him in, and straddle his waist before crawling over his body as he lies back.

As I get situated, he sucks on my breasts greedily as they hover near his face, then makes quick work of getting my underwear off. "Hold on a minute," I say breathlessly, pulling away from his hungry mouth as I sit up. "You're still dressed."

I lean back and run my hand over the straining bulge in his pants, and he twitches at that action alone. I smirk, teasing him with a feather-light touch, and he squirms because of it. Having distracted him enough, I leave his penis alone and unbutton his shirt - going slowly, one button at a time, as more and more of his beautiful bronze skin becomes visible.

I kiss the sparse hair on his chest and his nipples, too, when the buttons are far enough along. His are pebbled and dark, as hard as mine, and I knew they would be. I trace one with my thumbnail and close my mouth around the other, feeling the erratic buck of his hips under mine as I go. He moans - I love it when he moans - and writhes beneath me, widening his thighs as I get his shirt fully open.

He's breathing hard, and I can see him doing so when his stomach is bared. It rises and falls with intensity, pushing out and in, and I drag my fingernails over it, dancing dangerously close to the waist of his pants. I kiss the spot just below his belly button when I undo his slacks, and it doesn't take much to get them to the floor.

I'm satisfied when he's left in his briefs, nearly in the same state I'm in. But as I was prepared to give him a blowjob, he apparently has another idea in mind.

He sits up and lifts my body off of his, confusing me for only a moment until he lies on his stomach between my knees that he slowly spreads. I relax against the mattress, blinking at the ceiling, and reach for the familiarity of the curls atop his head - my anchoring force.

"You want it this time?" he asks.

I nod, running my teeth over my lower lip. "Please," I say, lifting my hips eagerly.

"You don't have to say please, babe," he says. "I want you just as bad."

He starts slowly, peppering soft, intimate kisses against my lips, threading his fingers through the soft triangle of hair. I wonder if he notices that I don't shave anymore, not like I used to. I'm too old for that. I wonder if he likes it.

But thoughts of those kind soon leave my mind once he spreads my lips and pushes his tongue inside. I lose my sense of self, any ounce of control I had left, and submit myself fully to him. If there was any question before that I'm all his, there's not anymore.

He doesn't come up for air. At least, I don't see him if he does. I try to keep my eyes open, but I haven't felt this good in so long. It's otherworldly. I might be drifting in and out of my own body. My hips work against his mouth of their own accord, lifting and undulating, and he does nothing to stop them. He only makes them work harder when he reaches both hands up to hold my breasts, tweaking my nipples in time to the rate his tongue is moving.

With my mouth wide open, I let loose all sorts of sobbing sounds. Whimpers, cries, desperate pleas - I'm not above any of it. I know he loves hearing me, too. When I say his name, the movement of his mouth only grows more voracious and I have to grip the comforter so I don't float away from all this. I wouldn't dare miss what's about to happen.

Suddenly, he centers all his focus on my clit and sucks hard. And I mean hard. He doesn't use teeth - he won't, unless I ask him to - but the force of his lips is enough. Enough to send me reeling, and enough to raise my voice to a level it shouldn't reach with two teenagers in the house. But I can't help myself. It's euphoric, what he's doing to me. I see stars long after I come down, my breath coming in shaky gusts as my hips continue to ride out the aftershocks.

"Mmm…" he hums, licking his lips. "I love it when you twitch like that."

I can't stop, either. My hips keep bucking like they expect something more, which I very much do.

"I love…" he says, bending his neck to kiss my core again - all open-mouthed and wet with his saliva and what came from me. "Seeing you like this. Seeing your body. Your muscles moving like that… good God."

My insides clench hearing his voice sound the way it does. So, I pull his body on top of mine, feeling his defined hardness between my thighs as I wrap my arms around his neck, and clasp my ankles together over his ass.

"That's what you do to me," I say, lips moving against his. My hips move against his, too, trying to find the rhythm they used to know so well. I need his underwear off. Now.

"You're so fuckin' sexy," he growls, tucking his face into my neck. He kisses me sloppily, mouth wide open as his teeth graze my pulse point. "Jesus Christ. Can you come again?"

I close my eyes and giggle, hugging his shoulders tight. "Can I come… baby, yes. Of course."

"I should get a condom," he murmurs, sitting up while absently palming my breast.

"Yes, you should," I say. "With our luck, one try and we'd get triplets."

He laughs and swings one leg to stand up off the bed, glancing over his shoulder after he does so. "Don't move," he says. "Seriously, don't look any different than you do right now. You're perfect."

"You're cheesy."

"How do you think I gained all this weight?" he says, jokingly patting his stomach.

When he comes back, a handful of condoms in tow, I strip off his underwear while welcoming his body on top of mine again. "I like you this way," I tell him, skimming my hands down his sides, feeling goosebumps rise on him as I do. "You're healthy. We got older." I hold his face in my hands and kiss him slow, closing my eyes to relish the taste of his lips. "And I like a man with meat on his bones."

"I sure hope so," he says, petting my hair away from my face. "But you're still mini as ever. Still feel like I'm gonna crush you."

"You won't," I whisper, still holding his head while smoothing his eyebrows with both thumbs. We look into each other's eyes for a long moment before a soft smile breaks onto my face, and he soon mirrors it. "I love you, Jackie," I say, so quietly I practically mouth the words.

He lowers his head to kiss me, and pulls away to simply ghost his lips over mine. "I love you," he returns, our mouths still dancing against each other. "So much."

He enters me slowly, so unlike the way we released the pent-up anger and tension not long ago. This time is different, so much different, and I hold on to each and every second. Not because I don't think I'll get it again, but because it's so special. _He_ is so special. The father of my children, the love of my life, is here with me. Beside me, on top of me, moving inside me. Just as it should be.

He comes first, and I hold him as his body jerks and quivers on top of me, the sweat on his dewy skin mixing with mine. When I come, it affects every single part of my body - it's so powerful, so visceral, that I start to cry.

They're not violent sobs, but they're insistent, and Jackson notices right away. He kisses away the tears that stain my cheeks and cups my jaw while still inside me, asking with only his eyes what he can do.

"I'm okay," I say, smiling. Because I'm happy. These are happy tears, and I don't do anything to stop them.

"You're okay," he repeats, reminding me. He pulls out, discards the condom, and envelops me in his strong arms - the arms I never forgot the feeling of, even when I tried. "I got you. I love you."

I nuzzle his chest and spread out my fingers over his stomach, running my thumb through the hair on his navel. "Forever and ever," I whisper, hoping he'll finish it - knowing he'll finish it.

And he does. His voice low and comforting, sounding as he always did, he says, "Amen."


	17. Chapter 17

**JACKSON**

I wake up as the room is still dark and glance at my phone, relieved to see that it's only 2am - nowhere near time to get up. I don't know what roused me until I feel April stirring, rustling the sheets with her nearly-naked body as she stretches closer to me.

Way back when, we always used to awaken at the same time without meaning to. When the girls woke up to nurse, April always nudged me back to sleep and said she could handle it on her own. But when it was time for the day to begin, we never needed an alarm. Our internal body clocks were set exactly the same, and I always opened my eyes just as she did. It was something small that always comforted me, the fact that we were so attuned to one another.

It seems that hasn't changed. Because she's half-awake now, at least I think she is, as she winds herself around my body. I'm only wearing a pair of black boxers, so the warmth she provides is appreciated as she drapes one leg over both of mine and wraps a willowy arm around my middle. She sighs, content, as she nestles her cheek against my shoulder, and I drop a kiss to her hairline.

I keep my eyes open, watching as she settles down again. Her eyelids flutter and twitch and her lips part slightly, allowing her breath to hit my skin with steady, gentle puffs. I feel the soft curve of her breasts against my side - she's shirtless, which is a blessing in itself. Wearing only underwear, just like me. But instead of black, hers are bright pink. When I saw them, I chuckled to myself and wondered, what grown woman proudly owns a pair of bright pink panties? Only April.

I stroke her hair, moving it out of her eyes to stay tucked behind her ears. She closes her mouth and presses tighter against me, which I'm not complaining about. I feel her belly expanding against my ribcage and relish the sweet warmth of it. I love her body. Everything about it is feminine and tender, the antithesis of how I see myself. We've always complemented each other - she used to say we complement and compliment one another, and I'd laugh, because I always laughed at her little jokes.

There's a lot about our past that we haven't dug through yet. We've glossed over the hard parts and instead focused on the pain our girls have endured. I think that was the right path to take first, making sure they're okay. Clementine made leaps and bounds of progress today, and I'm confident about the direction she's headed for the first time since she was small. It's a great, refreshing feeling, knowing that Clemmie and I are on good terms. Or, at least, that we're on the way there. We experienced the first open line of communication that we've had for years and years. It was cathartic and exhausting, but I'd do it every day if it meant she'd open up to me again.

Admittedly, I'm not sure what's going on with Skye. At first, she seemed easy to connect with as the more affable, compliant twin. Much like April, she gave in situations where she should have taken because it kept the waters smooth. But no one can exist in that bubble forever, and I'm pretty sure it popped. It's a lot to get used to for all of us, and it'll be a slow process. But I'm patient. For 14 years, I waited for the woman who's now cuddled against my side. I'm willing to do the work it takes to get our family back to the state it should've always been in. I hope they know that.

I glance at April's face and her eyelids move sporadically, right before her mouth does. "I feel you staring," she mutters, cheek squished against my chest.

I chuckle, which makes her head bounce. She still doesn't open her eyes, though. I kiss her forehead and run my fingers through her tangled - yet soft - red hair. The color hasn't changed a bit.

"Why're you awake," she says softly, smacking her lips while rubbing my stomach absentmindedly, her flat hand making its way from one side to the other.

"Thinking," I say.

"About me?"

I chuckle again, this time softer. "Kind of," I say. "About everything, I guess."

"Well, your loud thoughts woke me up," she says, then opens her eyes. As she blinks, she rubs the sleep out of them and asks, "What time is it?"

"Just past 2," I answer.

"Geez," she says, then picks her head up. With a slow smile, she holds my jaw in one hand and strokes my stubble with her thumb, then kisses me. She tastes like sleep and smells warm, even as her ice-cold feet press against my shins and find a home there. "I was dreaming about you," she mutters, letting her forehead fall to rest in the crook of my neck. She sleepily kisses my collarbone all the way to my shoulder, where she lifts my arm and crawls to rest her body right overtop of mine.

"Something sexy?" I ask, skimming my hands down her back. I trail my fingers over the dip in her spine, right where she likes to be touched, and sneak below the waistband of her underwear. Those hot pink underwear.

"No, scary," she says. "I couldn't find you."

"Oh, no," I say, taking two generous handfuls of her rear end and squeezing.

"I was calling and calling for you," she says, resting her cheek over my heartbeat and tickling my arm with her fingernails - up and down, up and down. It makes chills rise on my skin and blood rush to my groin, which I'm sure she notices. "You wouldn't answer."

With my hands in the same place, I massage her as she slackens even more on top of me. "Mmm," I say, kissing her temple. It's all I can reach. "Well, I'm right here now."

"I know," she whispers, then rolls off of me.

For a second, I'm left cold. That is, until she gets a good hold on one shoulder and pulls, asking without words for what she wants. With a smirk, I press my weight onto my elbows and trade positions with her, but I don't lower down. I hover over her body, only letting my hips fall after we lock eyes.

She smiles as I do, brushing her hands down my sides. "You're hard," she whispers. "And it's not even morning."

"Guess that's the power you have over me," I say. "You wanna?"

She nods, a glint in her eye that's only magnified by the light from the street flooding in through the window. When I sink inside her, she gasps and hugs my waist with those strong little legs, urging me forward as if I need any help. I intertwine our fingers and press one of her hands flush against the pillow, and she uses the other to frame my face.

I like that our lips don't part as I slowly roll my hips against hers. There are two links between us that won't break until we allow them to, and we breathe through our noses to compensate. It's only when I feel her thumb on my lips do I pull away from her, and she slips it into my mouth. We meet eyes and hers are aroused and mischievous, so I suck on her finger while her neck goes slack. I wrap my tongue around it and she moans, chest expanding with a powerful inhale as her thumb is entirely inside my mouth.

"You're so… you're so…" she whimpers, unable to finish the sentence.

Her thumb falls out and I kiss her hard, debilitating the both of us for a moment. The rhythm we'd found hitches - but it only takes a second to find it again. I rest my weight back onto my knees and slide an arm under her, lifting the small of her back to thrust inside her at a different angle.

With her shoulders still on the bed and her hips raised, she's nothing less than a work of art. She lets her arms rest askew above her head, and before long I have to get my lips on her. I kiss her stomach, the elevated bones of her ribcage, and suck on her nipples until they're two hard, strawberry-colored buds.

"I'm close," she hisses, both hands on her forehead. Her face is just as pink as her nipples, if not a bit more flushed.

"I know," I say, one hand flat on the plane of her stomach. "I can feel you."

She smiles, one side of her lips pulling up. She opens her mouth to speak, but I heighten my thrusts and bury myself so deep inside her that her eyes roll back and she clings to my shoulder blades for support, nails digging into my skin.

"Jesus Christ!" she says, her voice coming out as more of a squelch. With her teeth gritted and jaw locked, she doesn't have much choice.

I stay inside her as she comes, her muscles tightening and spasming around me. I hold back as best I can - I'm not wearing a condom - but I wanted to feel her come unwound. Her mouth drops open as her muscles loosen and she lets out a long, shuddering breath. As she comes down, her muscles are still jerky as she rides the rest of it out.

I can't stave my orgasm off any longer, so I pull out and stroke myself once or twice before I shoot my load all over her stomach. With my head thrown back, I'm completely euphoric with stars swimming behind my eyes, blissed out before I look down and see what a mess I've made of her.

"Shit," I say, heart pumping like mad. "Stay there. I'll clean you up." She giggles as I stand and she's still smiling when I come back with a wet washcloth. "I should've asked…" I say, feeling a bit awkward now. The feeling is new for me. "Before I came on you like that. I'm sorry."

"I liked it," she says, eyeing me as I wipe off the sunken expanse of her stomach. I make sure to dip the washcloth inside her belly button too - because some got in there. I can't decide if that's embarrassing or sexy.

"You did?" I ask, tossing the washcloth into the hamper.

"Yeah," she says, winding her arms around my neck. "And it's safer than coming inside me, no condom. We both know I'm fertile Myrtle."

I snort, face buried in her sweet-smelling neck. "Don't say that," I say. "Ever again."

I get comfortable, resting my head in the space between her breasts, her heartbeat beneath my ear. She traces my eyebrow with one finger and blinks lazily, watching my head rise and fall in time with her inhales and exhales. I could stay here forever, just like this, with her.

What comes out of her mouth next surprises me. She says, "Skye wants to go back to Nantucket."

I raise my eyebrows, lifting my head to see her better. She's serious; the look in her eyes has changed from sexy and dreamy to pensive. I fold my hands overtop her ribcage and say, "You'd feel okay about letting her go alone?"

April shakes her head vehemently. "No, no," she says. "I mean, I'm sure she would like to take the trip alone. She's not my biggest fan right now."

"She's not?" I ask.

She shakes her head again, this time gentler. "No," she says. "She's upset about everything I kept from her. It's… complicated, and something she and I have to work out. But she misses home - Nantucket home. I ripped her away from it and dropped her into something completely new. Skye's never been good with change because she hasn't had to be. We lived in the same place her whole life, and it was only 15 miles wide. And now, her life is big and loud and scary. It's a lot for her to handle, so I understand how she's feeling. But still… I don't like being at odds with her, and I think going back to the island will help clear her mind."

"So, what are you saying?" I ask. "That all of us should go?"

She looks a little timid now. "If you're interested… yes," she says. "There are things to be dealt with that we've never dealt with, even before we separated. My parents… well, my mom, never approved of us. And that won't stand anymore. They've never even met Clementine. And I want Julian to see her."

"It'd be good to see Jules," I say. "And you're right. I know. But… it's a lot to think about."

"They don't know that I found you," she says. "Or you found me. Or whatever happened. I haven't told them, and Jules wouldn't. So… it'll be a surprise."

"A good one, or a bad one?" I ask.

"Um… I'm not sure," she replies.

I don't have any good memories with April's mom and dad. We never spent that much time around them because, like she said, they never approved of us. When she announced that we were going to the same college, they all but scoffed and said it was stupid. When we told them we were pregnant, they kicked us out on our asses. I've always believed their disdain for our relationship doesn't have anything to do with how young we were or that we were 'living in sin,' but more to do with my skin color. I wonder what they think about the fact that their two precious grandchildren are made of half my person; a quarter of the race they're prejudiced against.

"What are you thinking, Jackie?" April asks, smoothing out the lines on my face.

I sigh and say, "A lot."

"Like what?"

"Like… why your mom and dad always hated me. More than the fact that we moved in together and never got married. I feel like it has more to do with-"

"That you're black," she finishes, which floors me. She must catch the look on my face because she softly follows up with, "I know. It took me a long time to figure it out. I was blind about it, because I have that privilege. But you don't, and our kids don't. So, I'm gonna call them out. No euphemisms, no sugarcoating. We're gonna have that conversation, me and them. And I don't wanna speak for you, but I also don't wanna force you to confront them if you don't want to."

"I want to," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I say, solidifying it.

"Okay," she says, then holds my head and brings it closer to kiss my forehead.

She pets my hair while meticulously kissing the rest of my face, all the skin she can reach. When she stops, she holds my chin in both hands and looks into my eyes, and I see worry etched behind hers.

"It's okay," I say, soothing her. I press my lips to hers, just once. A promise. "It's not gonna be like before. We're in it together this time. Me and you."

"And Thing 1 and Thing 2."

I laugh, kiss her again, and say, "Of course. Them, too."

**CLEMENTINE**

For Fall Break, I guess we're going to Nantucket. Dad has taken me to plenty of places, even outside the country once or twice for a hospital conference he's had to attend, but I've never been to this tiny island off Massachusetts. Probably for good reason, too, because I'm guessing with how small it is, everybody knows everybody. If Dad had shown up with me before Skye and I knew about the secret, the lid would've been blown off of it before we could blink.

We're going back there because Mom said it'll be good for all of us. I don't know if I'm right, but I sense she's not all that excited about going. I don't know how it will benefit us, we have plenty to get used to right here in the city, but Dad backed her up and said that it's final. And once they team up, I guess that means the time for negotiation is over. We're going to Nantucket.

We're getting ready back at Mom and Skye's place so they can pack clothes that are actually theirs. For the last week or so, Skye has been wearing my stuff. I don't mind that much, I'm kind of getting used to it, but I think it's starting to get on her nerves. She's been different since the day I had the big blowout with Mom and Dad. And not in a good way.

I've been feeling a lot lighter since I got all that off my chest. Lighter than I have since forever, maybe. I can't remember ever feeling this good, this happy around Dad, this comfortable. I'm still getting used to the idea of Mom, but I like being around her, too, and learning new things about her. It's a whole new world, and I finally feel like I'm open to it. Like, I actually want it. But Skye, who was so gung-ho about everything in the beginning, has pretty much shut down.

I'm sitting at her desk while she meticulously folds clothes and places them in a baby pink suitcase, making sure everything lines up to fit. The opposite of me - I threw everything in whether it was clean or dirty and decided to worry about it once we got there. I like fashion, but I can make anything work. Even if it's wrinkled and a few days old.

"Your shirts have hospital corners," I say with a smile, watching her work.

She glances over without moving her head, just her eyes. I wanted some sort of quippy response or maybe a laugh, but I get neither. The only way she acknowledges that I even spoke is the tiny movement of her eyes.

"I basically just dumped everything in," I say, still trying to make conversation. We've switched roles, which would be funny if she weren't icing me out for no apparent reason. "I thought maybe I could toss it all in the washer once we got there."

"Nana only does laundry on Sunday nights," Skye says, tucking a pair of ankle boots inside. "She might not let you."

"Well, damn," I say. "Strict."

I'm nervous to meet my grandparents. Like, really nervous. I don't remember Dad's mom, because she died when I was a toddler and he doesn't talk about her much. Not in the way he didn't talk about Mom; I get the vibe that Grandma didn't treat him very well. So, I don't blame him.

The concept of having grandparents has always been so far out of reach, so unattainable, but now it's right here. I don't know how they'll receive me, though. How did they react when Mom showed up on the island with only one baby? Did they ask for me? Did they tell her she was wrong for what she and Dad did? I have no idea. I've seen a few pictures, and they're all ginger as hell like Mom. With freckles to boot.

I have an uncle, too, Julian. Mom talks about him highly, so I'm both excited and nervous to meet him. Still nervous. Because what if they don't like me? What if they expect me to be just like Skye, and are in for an unpleasant surprise? I have no idea how any of this will go down. But I hope it'll be smooth sailing. Maybe we could make a tradition of going to the island for Christmas, or something. I bet it's pretty then.

"Is that how Mom's mom is?" I ask. "Always strict?"

Skye looks at me briefly, then goes back to packing. "Nana?" she says, clarifying. "She likes things a certain way."

"Like Mom."

"No, not like Mama at all," Skye says. "She likes things her way; there's no other option. But you get used to it. I don't know how she'll feel about all the stuff you do, though."

I furrow my eyebrows and say, "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs. "You swear. You wear jeans with rips in the knees. You drink and smoke. Nana will not like that."

I can't help but snort. "Honestly? Jeans with ripped knees are gonna be an issue?"

"Maybe," she says. "I don't know. But I do know that the other things will be."

"I don't drink and smoke regularly," I say. "It was just that one time. You're making me sound like an addict."

"I'm just telling you what Nana will think."

"How will she even know?" I ask. "It's not like she's been calling to check up on me."

"I don't know," Skye says. "Sometimes, she just knows things."

I sigh and roll my eyes, making sure she doesn't see. She's been really fucking annoying these past few days.

"If you curse around her, she'll wash your mouth out with soap," Skye says, maybe reading my mind.

"I'd like to see her try," I grumble.

"She will," Skye insists. "She did it to Mama and Uncle Jules when they were kids. She'll do it to you."

"Has she done it to you?"

"No," Skye says, still packing. "I don't swear."

"Not ever."

"Nope."

I resist a groan. She's being insufferable. "Well, aren't you just perfect then?" I say under my breath. "Didn't she teach you how to play violin?"

"Yes."

Another picture-perfect image. The only instrument I ever played was the recorder, and Dad made me stop because we got complaints from the neighbors who heard me squeaking through the walls.

After that, Skye isn't very talkative. She closes up and the vibe in the room gets even colder than it was before, so all I want to do is leave. Without saying goodbye, I walk out of the room and head to the kitchen, where I can hear Mom and Dad talking to each other.

"I'm never gonna finish these lemon squares if you keep groping me," Mom says.

Dad laughs and I smile. She's making my favorite dessert - I just told her about it the other night. Nanny Gem used to make it for me, and Mom said that I loved the taste of anything lemon when I was little, so it's no wonder I love them.

"When your ass looks like that, you can't expect me to keep my hands off you," Dad says.

I cringe, but really it doesn't gross me out that much. Most of my friends' parents back at LP were divorced or basically hated each other. It's kind of cute that mine are still so obsessed. Cute, and a little sickening.

Before they can start dry humping against the dishwasher, I come around the corner to make my presence known. I see Dad pressed up against Mom, her back against his front, his hands tucked into her jeans pockets. But when he sees me, he jolts away like Mom is made of fire.

"Clemmie," he says, clearing his throat. He's embarrassed, which makes me laugh. He doesn't need to be. "Hey, babe."

"Hey," I say, coming to lean on the counter. Mom's house is a lot homier than Dad's, and I like it better. There are decorations in the kitchen, picture frames mounted on the walls, and candles everywhere - even though they haven't even lived here for that long.

"What's up, buttercup?" Mom asks. "I'm making your fave."

I smile widely and do grabby hands when she hands me a beater to lick. "So, so, so good," I say, giving it back when I'm done.

"Hey, what about me? Don't I get one?" Dad says, pretending to pout.

"You're fine, mister," Mom says, reaching behind her to lovingly pat Dad's belly.

"You're right," he says, flexing. "I am fine."

"Oh my god, Dad," I say, groaning as I cover my face. "Please, stop."

Mom laughs and licks the other beater, then holds it over her shoulder so Dad can have some, too. She watches him and they make eye contact, then he steals a kiss on her cheek. My face heats up, but not in a bad way. I've just never seen this before, two people existing so easily around one another. Dad and Bree were never, ever like this. She was always on his back about something, nagging him about dumb shit. I don't know if I ever saw them kiss. With he and Mom, it's more than just kissing and touching. It's the way they look at each other.

Interrupting the soft moment, a door slams from the hall. Skye's room. We all hear footsteps stomping down the hall before they disappear into the bathroom, where the shower comes on. Mom looks concerned, craning her neck in that direction. Dad doesn't unlatch his arms from around her waist, and she doesn't motion for him to.

"What was that?" she asks. "Was that Skye?"

"Yeah," I say, eyebrows up. "She's been acting super weird."

Mom looks down, placing the beater in the sink. Dad rests his chin on her shoulder docilely, blinking as he keeps his eyes on her face. "She's not talking to me," Mom says.

"For real?" I ask.

Mom shakes her head. "For a few days now. It's really bothering me."

"You want me to talk to her?" Dad asks.

"No," Mom says, then eyes me. "Did she say anything to you?" I shake my head no. "Is she speaking to you, at least?"

"Kind of," I say. "Not really. Not like she used to. It's like she's a different person. And let me tell you, I do not like this new version of Skye. She's a b-" Mom's eyes flash, warning me to watch it. "Brat," I amend.

"Is she still mad? What happened?" Dad asks.

Me and Dad might be on better terms than we used to be, but he's still clueless.

"Like, everything," I say, eyes wide.

"I talked to you about it the other night. It's a lot of change for her to take in," Mom says. "She's not handling it as well as she was making it seem, and I should've noticed earlier. She's upset with me. Not you, and not you," she says, referencing me and Dad. "It's something that she and I need to work out. But I guess I should also get used to not being on good terms all the time. She's allowed to be mad."

"Yeah, but don't take it out on me!" I say. "She made Nana, or whatever, sound like the freaking scariest person ever. It was like she wanted me to be scared."

Dad snorts. Mom nudges him with her shoulder.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing," Mom says.

"Yeah, right," I say. "Dad. What?"

He laughs lightly, standing up straight while still keeping one arm around Mom's waist. I don't think he's physically capable of letting go of her. "Well… your 'Nana' isn't exactly… the easiest person to be around. She and I never quite hit it off."

"She has her own issues," Mom says. "One of which being that she's a racist. But this weekend-"

"Wait, hold on. What?" I say, sputtering.

"Unfortunately, yes," Mom says. "Before we got pregnant, I didn't realize what made her dislike your dad so much."

"I did," Dad notes.

"Well, like I said," Mom continues. "My privilege."

"I know. You did say that."

"But I'm going to put them in their place this weekend," Mom says, lifting her chin. "Whether it causes a giant rift between them and us or if it patches things up. Whatever happens, happens. If they own up to how immoral their viewpoints were and are, then maybe we can get on the same page. But if not, then good riddance to them."

Dad looks proud of her. I am, too.

"How did you not know they were racists, though?" I say, squinting. "Like… Skye has been black this whole time."

"I think they chose to look past that, instead of embrace it," Mom says, a pink hue appearing on her cheeks. "It was wrong. I should've said something a long time ago. I guess, in a way, that was me glossing it over, too. They were never outright about it, which almost makes it worse. But that had to be the reason they were so upset when I got pregnant. Like so, so upset." Mom presses her lips together and her eyes get shiny before she hurries over and pulls me into her arms. She holds the back of my head against her chest and I hear her heart beating as she kisses my hair. "I love you for everything you are. You know that, right?"

"Mom. Yes," I say, voice muffled by her shirt.

"Okay," she says, freeing me. "I'm not gonna let them hurt you - any of you - this weekend. In any way."

"I can handle myself," I say.

"You don't have to," she says, giving me a gentle look. "Let me do it now."

…

A little while later, I'm doing homework at the table when Skye comes down the hall smelling like shampoo. Her hair is loose and wet and she's wearing a ratty college t-shirt of Mom's overtop a pair of fleece pajama pants. She looks cozy, but her expression is unsettled, so I mind my own business.

Mom and Dad are still in the kitchen, cleaning up the lemon bar mess. I've been listening to the sound of their laughter beneath the classical music perpetually playing in this place. I like it. I've never felt more at home than I do right here.

I'm working on a particularly difficult problem set when Skye opens the fridge and peers inside. Mom had been talking to Dad, but abruptly stops when she notices Skye.

"Hey, baby," she says. "You hungry? I made lemon bars."

I don't look up, but the tension in the room is palpable. The movement of my hand stills as my pencil lead stays in one place, at the top of a number 7.

"I don't like lemon," Skye mumbles, still standing in the open door of the fridge.

"You'll definitely like these," Mom says, trying to sound enticing. "You know I'm the best baker in town. Everything I make tastes good!"

Dad makes some sort of suggestive sound, and I roll my eyes. I can picture his hands on her waist, face in her neck, or something like that.

"Whatever," Skye says, clearly not going for it. I didn't think she would.

"Skye," Mom says, and her tone of voice has changed. She's serious now, whereas before she was playful. "Talk to me. What's going on, sweetie?"

"Nothing."

"I know it's not nothing, babe," Mom says. "Clemmie was telling me-"

"What?" Skye snaps, whirling around. The fridge stays open. It's going to start beeping soon if no one shuts it. I have more than half a brain, though, so I stay where I'm sitting. "What did your precious Clemmie tell you?"

My eyes widen as I stare at my worksheet. I don't think I should be bearing witness to this, but if I get up now, it'll only look worse. Mom will probably say that I don't have to go, and I really don't want to hear what Skye would have to say about that.

"Honey," Mom says, concerned. "If something's bothering you-"

"Duh, something's bothering me."

"You don't need to take it out on your sister. She didn't do anything wrong. I know there's a lot going on right now, and you've gone through a lot of change. But none of it is Clemmie's fault. And it's not your fault, either."

Skye throws up her hands and lets them fall to smack against her thighs. "Yeah, I know!" she says. This might be the first time I've ever heard her raise her voice. "Because it's your fault! Both of your guys' faults!"

I glance over, keeping my head low. Dad is standing in the middle of the kitchen like someone electrocuted him, and Mom is near tears. I feel bad. They just went through this with me a few days ago, and if they're in the same boat as I am, they're still recuperating from it. And now, they're being inundated from the other side. They can't catch a break.

Maybe they deserve it, though. They did a cruel thing by keeping us apart. We have a right to blow up on them. But still, it's not a great feeling to watch an argument go down without experiencing the anger that partners with it.

"Ky-" Dad begins, but Skye cuts him off.

"Please, don't call me that," she spits. Now, I'm sure I've never heard her like this. I feel defensive of Dad for a second before realizing that he's a big boy and can handle himself. "You barely even know me, and I definitely don't know you. You can't call me that!"

Dad raises his hands, palms up, in surrender. He nods, understanding. "You're right," he says. "I'm sorry."

"I get that you're mad," Mom says. "But you don't need to shout. At him, at me, or at anyone. We can talk about this without raising our voices."

"Quit talking to me like I'm five!" Skye says, not taking a word of what Mom just said into consideration. "I'm fifteen."

"I know," Mom says, nodding. "Okay. I'm sorry."

"Nobody asked me about any of this," she says, gesturing wildly with her arms. "When we stayed at Daddy's, you didn't ask me if I wanted to. When you invited them back here, you didn't ask me if I was okay with it. What if I don't want to share a room with her? What if I don't want any of this?"

She starts crying and, surprisingly, I'm not hurt by anything she said because I know exactly what she means. It's not that we don't want it, it's just that no one asked. I do want a life with her and Mom, but Mom and Dad keep forgetting that we're not the babies they separated. We're teenagers, and teenagers have a lot to say. And we don't take anything lying down.

"I didn't want them to go back to Nantucket with us," she says, wiping under her eyes. "I wanted it to be just me and you."

"I know, honey," Mom says. "But this is something we need to resolve as a family."

"But me and you were a family!" Skye says. "For my whole entire life, it was just me and you. And now, it's not. Just like that. And you didn't give me any time to get used to it, you just told me this is how it's gonna be. Just because I'm not out getting drunk and smoking weed doesn't mean I'm okay with it!"

Mom sighs and her shoulders cave in. She's going to start crying soon. Dad lifts an arm and rests his hand on her lower back, a subtle motion, but one Skye catches all the same.

"And like, all of a sudden, you're all lovey-dovey with him. He's the most important person in the world to you. And I'm just… here. I don't even matter anymore."

"Skye, that is not true," Mom says desperately, taking a few steps forward. Dad's hand falls away and he doesn't follow her, which, thank God. At least he's able to pick up on some cues. "I love you. I could never explain how much. There's no loving you less because there are new people in our life, baby. That's not how it works."

"You don't see me anymore!" Skye says. "You forgot me at school. You would've never done that at home. Ever!"

Mom takes Skye's hands and Skye lets her. She's a better person than I am, because I would've shaken Mom off. "I know," Mom says, then inhales shakily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry things are so different, and life has been so hard lately. I promise I'll be more present for you. I'm still learning how to spread myself equally. Ky, I'm not forgetting about you. Please, honey, you gotta believe me."

"I don't know," Skye says, sniffling. "I guess." Then, she collapses in Mom's arms and lets Mom hold her, looking a lot smaller than she just did. More like a toddler instead of a teenager. She loses all the voracity that fury gave her and lets Mom lead her down the hall and into her room, and the door shuts quietly behind them.

Stunned, Dad and I look at each other across the empty kitchen. "You're not the only one around here with problems," he jokes, a teasing smile growing on his face.

I mirror the expression and say, "Yeah… guess not."


	18. Chapter 18

**APRIL**

There isn't great cell service on the ferry from Hyannis to Nantucket; I have two bars - just enough to call my parents. Leaving Jackson and the twins to watch the ocean, I get up and walk to the main deck. The wind blows my hair wildly around my head, but it's nothing I'm not used to. Going back and forth between the island and the mainland used to be an everyday occurance, getting my sea legs back is like riding a bike.

The phone rings twice before my mom picks up. I knew she'd answer. I don't know if there was ever a time - not in my childhood or adulthood - that my dad has ever answered the phone. "April?" she says, like I've already annoyed her.

"Hey, Mom," I say, leaning to rest my elbows on the railing. The dark blue water swirls and rolls feet below me, but it's not scary. It's there to remind me that we're going home.

"I can barely hear you. There's so much wind. Where are you?"

"I'm on the ferry, actually," I say, squinting as I look up.

"The ferry?"

"To come see you guys," I say. "We should be there in about 45 minutes."

"What?" she says, flustered. "You should've told me! Nothing is ready, the house isn't clean… I have to go grocery shopping. There's nothing in the fridge. Your brother will have to come pick you up."

"That's fine," I say, keeping my tone even. One of us has to be steady. "I called him. He already said he would."

"And he didn't think to tell me what's going on?" she snaps. Then, she mutters, "Like I should be surprised."

"I wanted to tell you myself, Mom."

"Well, you could've told me sooner," she says. "Your father won't be home for another hour."

"Perfect," I say. "I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

"Sure," she says with a sigh. "Yes, sure."

I hang up and slip the phone back into my purse, then head back to my family. I didn't tell my mom about them on purpose. Not for any mean-spirited reason, but I want to have the element of surprise on my side. I don't want her to have a mental script ready.

"Hey," Jackson says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "You talk to your mom?" I nod. "What'd she say?"

I shrug one shoulder. "She's freaking out, as to be expected."

"Right," he says with a smile. Then, he asks, "You nervous?"

"As hell."

"Me, too," he says. "But it'll be fine."

"Right. What's the worst that could happen?"

"That phone call could've been the go-ahead and you guys are all teaming up now, _Get Out_ style," he says, smirking.

"Oh, shut up," I say, rolling my eyes lightly. "I'm serious about this."

"I am, too," he says. "But the mood was getting way too heavy. The girls haven't spoken since we left the dock. It's weirding me out."

Right on cue, Clementine looks up and takes off her headphones. "Where'd you go?" she asks me.

"I called Nana to tell her we're coming," I say.

"That me and Dad are, too?"

I nibble my lower lip. "I just said 'we.' I let her interpret it however she chooses."

Clemmie raises her eyebrows and says, "Yikes."

"It'll be fine," I say. "They're capable of being good. When I was a kid, my dad used to play tag with me and Uncle Jules once the sun went down. We'd catch fireflies and he'd sneak up on us and scare us."

Clemmie smiles. "That sounds fun."

"And my mom would always rope us into being her sous chefs. Julian liked it way more than I did, honestly. I just liked seeing him in the frilly apron."

"That's quite an image," Jackson cuts in.

I smile over my shoulder at him. "We had good times when we were kids. The two of them weren't always… like they are now. Well, maybe they were. They probably were. But they were good to me when I was little. I guess I'm still holding onto that."

"Maybe they're still under there, just buried under a bunch of other shit," Clemmie says. I shoot her a look and she knows exactly what it means. "Stuff," she corrects.

"Right," I say. "Maybe."

…

When our journey ends, I'm standing out on the deck again. The cabin was stifling, especially with how many errant thoughts were whirling around in my head. I needed fresh air, and honestly, being alone helped. But when the ferry pulls up to the dock, I feel a presence next to me and I turn to see Clemmie standing right there.

"Hey, babe," I say, offering her a small smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Kinda nervous," she says, scanning the scatter of people waiting in the parking lot. "Is Julian here?"

I let my eyes follow the path hers just took and find him instantly. He's sticking out like a sore thumb. "Right there," I say. "By the black Jeep."

I lock eyes with Julian and he waves like a maniac, his smile taking up over half his face. Clemmie laughs. "Definitely your brother," she says.

We find Jackson and Skye and de-board. Clemmie stays close and Jackson tries to keep Skye near, but she rockets ahead and greets her Uncle Jules before anyone else. She throws her arms around his neck with such force that he takes a stutter step backwards. They're adorable, but through my smile, my stomach twists.

Am I jealous of my daughter and my brother? After further consideration, I realize that I am. She hasn't hugged me like that in a while, and I miss her. I don't like being on weird terms with her. I'd give anything to have our simple relationship back, to be on the receiving end of a smile like the one she's flashing at Julian.

A few beats later, I finally reach him. Skye has let go, but she stays close while I hug my brother. "Finally," he says, giving me a sturdy pat on the back. I close my eyes and squeeze his shoulders tighter, holding tight to this piece of island home. "Damn. It's like you went off to war," he jokes, his voice muffled by my strong hold on him.

"I just missed you," I say, finally releasing him.

He pats the side of my face but quickly turns his attention to Clemmie, who's standing beside me and acting how she almost never does - shy.

"Clementine," Julian says, the corners of his lips pulling up in a gentle smile. "Man, it's been a long time since I've seen you."

Clemmie holds one elbow with the opposite hand. "We've met?" she asks.

"The day you were born," Jules says, still focused on her. "Your dad had you in his arms when I walked in the room with your mom's shoe."

"Her shoe?" Clemmie repeats.

"I lost it on the way into the hospital," I say, giggling. I can't believe I'd forgotten that and Jules didn't. But now that he brought it up, the day plays like a movie in my head. How tiny the twins were, how afraid we were to break them. We were so young.

"It's so good to see you," Jules tells Clemmie. "Really good. Can I give you a hug?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," Clementine says, and hugs him.

I watch Julian's face over Clemmie's shoulders and see his eyes shut tightly. His lips are pressed together to form a thin line, and his chin wobbles. When he pulls away, he hastily wipes his face and looks up towards the sky, warding off tears. "Sorry," he says. "It's just been a really, really long time."

Seeing my brother cry gets me going, too. My nose burns with the onset of tears and I take Clemmie's hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her knuckles. "She's here now," I say.

"Yes, she is," Jules says, smiling at her again before regarding Jackson. "Hey, man. Nice to see you."

Jackson reaches to shake Julian's hand, two pumps as they lock eyes and exchange something wordlessly. The two never really had a verbal relationship, so I remind myself not to ask it of them now. Everything will fall into place. At least, I hope it will.

…

We decided to go for lunch before seeing my parents, and any potential awkwardness was quelled by the presence of lobster rolls. Nantucket is famous for them; Skye and I hadn't had them since we left, and they were nothing short of heavenly. Jackson and Clemmie had never tried them, so to say that all of us left the restaurant with full bellies would be an understatement.

In the parking lot as we head towards Julian's Jeep, Clemmie speaks up. "Um… so, they don't know we're coming?" she asks. "The grandparents, I mean. How is this gonna go?"

Her question is disjointed, but it's something that I'm sure is on everyone's minds. At least, everyone's mind who doesn't already know the answer.

"Well…" Jules begins, then he clears his throat. "Well. The… the two of them weren't really involved in your guys' birth or April's pregnancy. At all. Or your lives now. You know that much."

"Well, _my_ life," Clemmie clarifies.

"Right," Julian says, his foot only halfway in his mouth. "Yeah. And the thing is… we're not the greatest communicators. All of us. It's a family flaw. Probably thanks to Mom and Dad, actually. And because of that, and a lot of other factors, I'm really not sure if they're aware that Skye _has_ a twin. I'm sure if they'd gone somewhere other than the island in the last fifteen years, they-"

I put up a hand to stop him from spiraling further. His words are already a mess and he barely answered the question. "My parents didn't ask questions when I came back with just Skye," I tell Clemmie, sparing her of any sugar coated truths or bald-faced lies. "And that was totally purposeful on their part. They were just glad that your dad was out of the picture. That's all they cared about at the time. Whether or not they're still so single-minded, I don't know. But I don't want you walking into that house expecting something wonderful and sweet. It won't look like that."

Julian looks at me with wide eyes - the same color as my own - and raised eyebrows. The girls don't flinch; this doesn't surprise them like it does my brother. He's caught off guard, clearly.

I inhale sharply and press my lips together, opening the back door of the Jeep to usher the twins inside. "Yeah," I say, still looking at my brother. "There's a lot to discuss."

**SKYE**

My entire body feels lighter now that we're on the island. I'm home, and I knew I'd be happy being back here, but I didn't know I'd be _this_ happy. It's not very warm out, but with the sun on my face and the salty breeze on my shoulders I feel more like myself than I have in a while.

In order to get to my grandparents' house, we have to park the Jeep down the road a little bit and walk the rest of the way. During the summer we can drive all the way up, but Uncle Jules doesn't feel like letting air out of the tires to compensate for the sand. So, we're walking, and I don't mind.

"Mama," I say, catching up to her. Ever since we got off the ferry, I've been looking at her differently. In Chicago, we were on two sides, separated and battling. But here, it's how we used to be. Like she's my best friend again. I don't want this to change.

"Yeah, babe," she says, and I can tell her mind is only half-present. There must be a lot going on in her head, because her eyes barely land on mine before darting off again. And her sentence doesn't rise like a question at the end, it lands flat like a statement.

"Can I take Clemmie to Madaket?" I ask. Madaket is my favorite beach. It's where I learned how to swim and I've spent countless summer days and nights there. With Mama, by myself, and with my friends. It's my beach.

She shakes her head slightly, dampening my spirits a bit. "No," she says. "This discussion needs to happen as a family. All of us need to be there."

"Okay," I say, though half of me wishes I could skip out and fast forward to the fun parts of this trip. Actually, it might be more than half of me that wishes that.

"I don't want there to be any more exclusion," Mama says, still going on about it. "We've done enough of that."

"Yeah, I get it," I say. And I do. Even though I don't like it, I get it. And maybe it won't be as bad as she's made it seem. Because right now the grim look on her face is one fit for a battle, and I really don't want a fight.

I was fine when we got off the boat, more than fine when we saw Uncle Jules, and I was completely calm for the entire Jeep ride to Beacon Lane. But now, with the only sound being the sand under all of our feet, I'm catching everyone's nerves. I don't want this to go badly. I know Nana has plenty of faults, but I don't want to lose the relationship that I have with her. I've already lost so much. I left the only home I've ever known and was dunked head first into unfamiliar territory. I'm not sure how much more I can handle at this point.

When we get to the front step, the front step that I climbed up every day of my life until we left the island, I take Clemmie's hand. I'm not really sure what makes me do it - I don't feel especially warm towards her right now - but I grip her fingers tight. She squeezes mine in return and glances over for a second, one corner of her lips pulling up in a weak smile. I give one back, trying to tell her without words that we're going to be okay.

Mama knocks on the door, which I find strange. I kind of understand why she did it, it would be weird for all of us to walk inside when Nana and Grandpa aren't expecting a big group. So, Mama knocks.

When the door comes open, my mouth is completely dry as I watch Nana take in the sight of everyone. Her eyes rake over her kids first, Mama and Uncle Jules, and they rest on Daddy for a moment before drifting to me and Clemmie. That's where she stays the longest, her gaze flicking between the two of us like she's trying to decipher who's who. I'm actually not sure if she knows, so I help her out.

"Hi, Nana," I say, waving meekly.

"No, you're not being Punk'd," Uncle Jules says jovially, but none of us laugh.

Nana keeps staring, then turns her body to one side to welcome us inside. She still hasn't said a word. I wonder if she's in shock.

I keep holding onto Clemmie's hand as we walk inside, and she looks around at the beachy interior. It's all hardwood floors and comfy chairs; it always has been. During the summer, the floor always has crunchy spots of sand on it, but it's not like that right now. She definitely cleaned in anticipation of our arrival, because it's more spotless than I ever remember seeing it.

Before Nana has the chance to find her words, Mama starts speaking. "Mom," she says. "You remember Jackson."

She winds an arm through Daddy's and glances at him with love in her eyes. Really, they're shining. Before I saw them together, I never saw Mama's eyes like that.

Nana doesn't really respond. She makes some sort of a weird, choked sound in her throat, but that's it. She's staring at Daddy like she wishes she could make him disappear with laser vision.

"And this is Clementine," Mama says, one hand on Clemmie's shoulder. "My daughter. Your granddaughter."

Nana's eyes travel to Clemmie, and my sister scoots a little closer to me. Is Clemmie intimidated by Nana? Clemmie, who's not scared of anything or anyone? It's a wild thought for me to process. I can't wrap my head around it. It's strange to think that my twin sister, someone who's basically a carbon copy of me, is scared of someone who helped raise me.

"This probably seems sudden," Mama continues. "But it's been a long time coming. Over the past couple months, I've done a lot of thinking. I've had a lot of 'come to Jesus' talks with both myself, the kids, and Jackson. I made a lot of mistakes. He and I both did, and the girls suffered. We decided they're not going to suffer anymore, not at the hands of us nor anyone else. And that includes you," she says. "I'm no longer going to suffer at your hand. And neither is Jackson."

Nana narrows her eyes, spurred to speak. "I have no idea what you mean," she says. Her voice sounds older than I remember.

"You never accepted him," Mama says. "And you never asked after Clemmie when I came here with only Skye. Why is that?" Nana starts to speak, but Mama stops her. "I already know the reason. I just wish I would've known it sooner. You don't like the fact that he's black, and that they're black."

My stomach drops as my eyes flit between my mother and grandmother. This might get bad. I want to leave. I want to take Clemmie and come back when the air has cleared.

"I never saw it before. And that's my fault. But what isn't my fault is how racist you are," Mama says, wasting no time.

It doesn't look like Nana knows how to respond. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, staring wide-eyed at all of us in front of her. I want her to say something along the lines of how ridiculous that accusation is, but she doesn't. Is that because what Mama said is true? _Is _Nana racist?

Suddenly, my shoulders feel heavy all over again. I thought I had escaped this feeling of not knowing.

"April, where is this coming from?" Nana says, sputtering. "I don't know how you can say something like that. How dare you?"

That's what I wanted to hear her say. But it doesn't sound as good as I hoped it would.

"Explain how you treated Jackson when we were kids!" Mama says, not backing down. "You were never kind to him."

"Because he distracted you," Nana says. It's like the rest of us aren't even here. I wish we weren't. "He distracted you from everything you wanted, and then he got you pregnant."

I feel the blow from that one. I've never thought about it like that before. Were me and Clemmie mistakes? I guess a lot of babies are, and people just roll with it. But the fact that Nana hadn't wanted me and Clemmie conceived makes my head spin.

"You could have gone to an Ivy League, April," Nana says. "But instead, you chose Loyola. Because he did."

"We chose Loyola together," Mama says. "I couldn't be without him. Didn't you ever wonder why I was so miserable when I lived here?"

"You were not miserable," Nana scoffs. "Please." She looks at me and Clemmie. "I don't want to fight in front of your daughters."

"I have things I need to say, and they understand that," Mama says. "You're avoiding the subject. Why can't you admit it? You think Jackson is lesser because of the color of his skin. I can see it in the way you look at him."

"That's not true," Nana says.

"Then why haven't you ever liked him?" Mama continues. "Why won't you look at him?"

"April, that's enough now," Nana says. "You're making this more dramatic than it needs to be. Isn't it cinematic enough, you showing up unannounced? You don't need to dig all this up as you go."

"Yes, I do," Mama says. "I should've said it a long time ago. My daughters have beautiful brown skin and curly hair that I love. All you ever did was complain about Skye's hair. You never learned how to style it like you did for me when I was little. You never even tried."

"You're her mother, not me," Nana says.

Thinking back, I realize that Mama is right. Growing up, even when I would spend long summer days at Nana's house - this house - and come out of the ocean dripping wet with my hair in tangles, she'd leave it for Mama to tackle. Even when I asked her to help me, she wouldn't. I always thought it was because she didn't want to hurt me.

"But you're their grandmother," Mama says. "And you don't accept who they are. You look past it."

"Not true," Nana says. "Not true at all."

"You called us stupid and selfish when I got pregnant!" Mama says, her voice rising. "What mother does that? Tell me."

Nana doesn't answer.

"Would you have said those same words had Matthew from church knocked me up?" Mama asks, then answers the question herself. "You wouldn't have. And I know exactly why." She gives Nana a look that could kill and says, "I'll never forgive you."

My skin goes ice cold and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I don't feel like we should be here anymore, no matter what Mama says. I take Clemmie's arm and pull her towards the door, saying, "Let's go." When we walk out, no one stops us.

The door shuts, and our staticky tension flickers in the air as we make our way down the driveway. I don't want to talk about what just happened in there, and I'm guessing she doesn't, either. But I don't know what to say instead. I haven't exactly been warm to her the last handful of days, and I don't quite know where we left off.

"So…" Clemmie says, her sandals crunching the crushed-shells. "What now?"

"I don't know," I say, wringing my hands. There are a lot of pictures of me wringing my hands as a toddler. It's been a nervous tic all my life. "Um… do you wanna go see my old house?"

"Where you and Mom lived?" she says.

We reach the end of the driveway. There's only sandy asphalt in front of us, and the house is within walking distance. It's the only place I can think of to take her.

"We don't have to, if you don't want to," I say.

"Well, I don't wanna stay here," she says. "Which way is it?"

When we get to the house, it's smaller than I remember. I was so used to living here - every memory I have was made in this little shingled cottage. And that's what it seems like now, just a cottage. It's tiny in comparison to Daddy's apartment, or even mine and Mama's apartment in the city. I wonder what Clemmie must think of it.

I turn my head to try and gauge her reaction, but I can't decipher it.

"It's really small, I know," I say.

"I wasn't thinking that," she says. "I like the porch. And the plants in the windows."

"Mama's," I say.

"I can tell," Clemmie says. "Does another family live here now?"

"I don't know, I say. "There aren't a ton of people that live on the island year-round. Everybody basically knows everybody and they've all lived in the same houses forever. So, I don't really know who would buy it."

"Let's go in, then."

"No!" I say, grabbing her elbow as she's begun to walk up the path. "Clemmie, no. We can't!"

"Why?"

"It's not ours."

"It isn't anyone else's," she says, gently pulling away from me. "Come on. Don't be a puss."

I furrow my eyebrows and scowl at the back of her head. I'm not angry, just frustrated, because I want to follow her lead but I don't want to get in trouble.

But who's around to get us in trouble? I look to my right and left and there's not a soul in sight. There's nothing to lose.

"Fine," I say, catching up to her. We make it to the front door and I say, "It's probably locked anyw-"

Clemmie turns the handle and it swings right open.

"Home sweet home," she says, stepping inside. "This could be our place, and Mom and Dad can go back to the city."

I raise my eyebrows. "You wanna live this close to Nana?"

Clemmie moves her lips to one side. "Racist Nana. Well, you're right. No. I guess she better move."

I can't help but laugh. With a smile left over on my face, I glance around the empty house that me and Mama left. There's the kitchen where we used to bake together, side-by-side. There's the place where the couch was, the couch that's waiting for us back in Chicago. But something about it in our apartment doesn't quite feel the same. There's the hallway that led to our bedrooms, and the spot for the dining room table next to the sliding glass door.

Clemmie walks towards the slider and presses her hands against it. I smile when she does, because that's something I always did - Mama never cared about handprints and fingermarks like other parents. When I was little, she let me be little. Thinking warm thoughts about her feels nice, especially since we haven't been on the best terms lately.

"Holy shit! The ocean is right in your backyard!" Clemmie exclaims, pulling at the door open.

"Not really," I say, joining her out on the deck. It's the middle of Fall Break, which means that it's not warm outside. It's not cold, either, but the wind makes it feel that way. "You have to walk to get to the beach."

"So, let's go!"

"Right now?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's not really warm enough."

"Oh, who cares," Clemmie says. "I've never been in the ocean before. Are you seriously gonna deny me this?"

"No… I don't know," I say. "I just don't think…"

"Exactly. Don't think," she says, and interlaces our fingers. "Just do."

I meet her eyes and identical smiles appear on both of our faces. "Okay," I say, nodding. "Let's go."

…

When we reach the top of the dune, Clemmie races down while I'm still taking in the view that I missed so much. I close my eyes and inhale the salty air, feeling it stiffen my hair, then let it all out. This is just what I needed. The surf pounding the sand, blocking out every thought in my head. Suddenly, I have no worries whatsoever. None to speak of.

I open my eyes to find that Clemmie has almost reached to the water; she's just a speck in the distance.

"Clemmie!" I shout.

"Come on!" she screams in return. "Slowpoke!"

I giggle to myself and jet off after her, my bare feet kicking up sand as I go. She waits with the waves gushing over her ankles, and I watch the sky mist over with gray clouds. Here on the island, weather happens right before your eyes. And right now, a storm is rolling in.

"It's gonna rain!" I shout over the wind and water.

"Doesn't matter! Not if we're going in," she says, tiptoeing further.

"What? We can't!" I say, clutching my elbows. The wind is vicious. "No swimsuits. And it's too cold!"

"I have solutions for both. We'll go in our clothes!" she says, and acts before I can stop her. Her jeans become soaked as she parades into the choppy water, and her cardigan trails behind her as she hops.

"Clemmie, no!" I call.

"Thought you weren't a puss!" she sings.

"Ugh," I say, wondering what to do. I know it's not smart to go in. The water is too cold and the wind is too strong, especially with a storm coming. But I can't let her go alone. She's not listening to my pleas to get out.

So, I do what I have to. I take off my windbreaker and jeans because the water will bog me down with them on. They'll get soaked and I'll sink. I can swim, but I'm not great.

After that, I stand on the dark, damp sand in a pair of pink underwear and a thin t-shirt. I'm freezing, already trembling. But I have to go get my overly enthusiastic sister.

"I'm coming!" I say, then splash in. "We really shouldn't - oh, my god!"

The water is so cold that it steals the breath from me. She is so stupid to have done this, and she's relatively deep now. I can only see her head. She's smiling, though. Can she not feel how cold the water is?!

"Clemmie!" I shout. "Come back!"

I can barely feel my limbs. We definitely shouldn't be here.

"_Clemmie_!" I scream again.

"Coming!" she shouts back, and I exhale a sigh of relief. I don't have to stay in anymore. I can wait for her with the pile of my clothes. I swim towards the shore, propelled by the waves, and wash up forcefully on the sand.

On my hands and knees, I catch my breath, recovering from how the water threw me around. Once my heart slows, I stand up and look for my sister without dressing. I need to see her before I worry about that.

But I can't see her.

"Clemmie!" I yell, as loud as I can. I cup my hands around my mouth, close my eyes, and shriek her name. "_Clementine_!"

Nothing. The only answer is the whoosh of the wind and water. Moments later, cool drops of rain begin to pelt my skin.

"No," I whimper, looking up and down the beach for anyone to help me. But no one's here. And I still can't see her.

Without hesitating, I run back in, kicking up water as I go. Once I'm deep enough, I dive under a wave and look around, but the sand clouds my vision. I can't see a thing.

I surface again and gasp for breath. By now, fear clutches my heart and makes it hard to breathe - even harder than the water makes it. "Clemmie!" I say, but my voice comes out more choked than powerful.

I paddle out further. She had gone so far. I don't know how well she can swim. I never asked.

"Clemmie!" I yell, and try to stand. But I can't touch the ground anymore.

A wave surges overhead and forces me under. For a few too-long seconds, the world goes silent. Salt stings my eyes and my lungs burn. By the time I reach the air again, I gulp and paw at the water like a dog.

"Clem-"

Before I can finish, a pair of arms wraps around me, hands locked over my chest. For a moment, I freak out - until I realize that this person is saving me. I allow myself to get dragged, my body going limp along the way.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Mama screams. Literally, she screams. She's soaked to the bone, knelt above where I've fallen in a heap on the sand. "What the fuck are you doing, Skye?!"

I start to cry, turning my head to cough up water. Mama helps me sit up, hugs me, and presses her face into my neck. She's shaking just as hard as I am.

"Where's your sister?" Mama asks once she pulls away.

I cough some more, still waterlogged. I blink hard, forcing the salt out of my eyes, and see that Nana, Grandpa, and Daddy are all standing around me, too. I don't know why they're here. My head feels light. Clemmie is still gone.

I point to the choppy waves. The rain is coming down harder now.

"Out there," I croak, and Mama screams.

Daddy runs into the water.


	19. Chapter 19

**JACKSON**

No one showed up to Clemmie's fourth birthday party.

It was a beautiful day in August, the kind where the sky was so blue that it hurt your eyes. I spent all morning decorating the apartment with streamers and a big sign that I'd crafted myself out of construction paper. It hung between the dining and living room and read _CLEMENTINE IS FOUR_!

She had picked out the colors of the paper. There were pink, blue, and purple sheets all interspersed together. The streamers that I got from the dollar store were yellow. Our place looked great, and I had even tried my hand at baking a cake. Her party would have two cakes, though, because she wanted to make one herself. And I let her.

"I do it by myself, Daddy," she told me as I hovered behind where she stood on the stepstool. "I can mix it."

"Alright, you mix it," I said, eyes on the clock. It was 2:30, and people were due to arrive at 3. The party wasn't going to be huge - just my mom and a couple of Clemmie's friends from preschool. "It's your birthday, after all."

Being funny in the way she always was, she said, "No, Daddy. It's _your_ birthday."

I snorted and smirked a little, shaking my head at her silliness.

"My friends are coming today," she said, licking the spoon she was mixing with. "That's why I'm making pink."

"Very smart," I said.

I was glad she was excited about her party, and I faked the same feeling as best I could. I was happy she was turning four, and so thankful she was healthy and well-adjusted. But the day was missing something - rather, two some_ones_ \- and their absence left a hole that no amount of cake or decorations could fix.

But Clemmie didn't know that. All she knew was that she was turning four and the party was for her. That was all that mattered. I tried to push my thoughts aside, ignore it when my mind roved to what April might be doing with Skye. Obviously, it was her birthday, too. How would they celebrate? Probably with a bunch of family and so many presents. I didn't have much for Clemmie. I gifted her a secondhand dollhouse this morning. She loved it, but I still felt guilty. I wished I could do more.

She deserved her sister. She was too good at playing by herself, and I worried about what that might mean for her future. Would she always be a loner? She made friends at school pretty fast, but that's how preschool worked. What would happen when it took more than sitting together at the art table to get close to someone?

Never mind the fact that, someday, she would get to the age where she needs a mother. She'd get her period and start liking boys. I knew it was far into the future, but I still didn't feel prepared.

I jolted back to earth and realized I was staring at her - that round-cheeked, cherubic face coated in batter. She'd clearly been sneaking tastes as I was lost in my thoughts.

She giggled and I gave her a light scolding look, then wiped her face with a dish towel. "You're gonna be bouncing off the walls, birthday girl," I told her.

"Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce!" she cheered, hopping down from the stool. "Daddy, when are people getting here?"

I poured the batter into a pan and slid it into the oven. After the door was shut, I glanced at the clock again. "About twenty minutes," I said. "Why don't you go put on your party dress?"

"I need help to do it," she said.

"Alright," I said, following her to her bedroom that was right beside mine.

I found the dress lying on her bed on clearance at Macy's, and couldn't believe how cheap it was. I realized she'd probably only wear it once, but the look on her face when I showed it to her was worth every penny I spent. It's a blush pink, sleeveless dress that's about knee-length. And the best part was that, with all the tulle sewn in, it was perfect for twirling.

"Arms up," I said, careful of the hair I painstakingly put into a braided halo last night after her bath. I slipped the dress on over her head and buttoned the tiny button behind her neck, then turned her around. "Oh, so pretty," I said, my hands on her shoulders.

Clemmie did a big twirl and hopped over to the mirror that rested behind her door. "I'm so, so, so, so, so pretty, Daddy!" she squealed, smoothing the skirt with her chubby, dimpled hands. "Everyone's gonna say I'm so pretty!"

"Yes, they are," I said, beginning to smell the cake in the oven. "Let's go make sure everything is set up."

Clemmie sat on the couch while I straightened up the living room area, and stood by the door when I took the cake out and set it on the table. She fixed the skirt of her dress again and again, and asked me what time it was with every passing minute.

"A little past 3, honey," I answered, anxiety rising in my chest.

"When will people come?"

"Any minute."

I didn't know I was lying to her. 3:15 came and went, the same occurred with 3:45. Then 4, and no one showed. No one was going to show.

"I think people must have gotten busy," I said, heartbroken.

Clemmie was lingering by the door, her skirt fanned out around her legs. She'd been sitting there, expectant, for an hour. "Did they maybe forget?" she asked.

"I'm sure they didn't," I said. "They probably just had something really important come up."

"Everyone had an important thing?"

"Must be," I said, but was inwardly cursing not only those awful preschool families, but my own mother - who didn't even bother with a text. "You know what, though? I'm sure they'll remember to bring your presents to school in September."

She considered that statement, pressing her lips together while staring at the floor. "But I already gotted two presents from you," she said. "And that's a lot of presents. Right?"

I blinked hard. She was an amazing kid. "You did get nice presents," I said.

"And I got two!" she said, springing to her feet and holding up two little fingers. "I got more than one!"

"You did," I said.

"And… and…" she said, scurrying to the table. She pulled herself up onto a chair and sat on her knees. "Now, me and you can have two cakes just for us! We don't even have to share! Come on, Daddy!"

I cleared my throat and went to join my daughter, sitting in the chair beside hers - the one I always sat in. I cut Clemmie a huge piece of cake, almost bigger than the paper plate she had in front of her, and did the same for myself. Then, we both took a big bite.

"Mmmmmmmm," she said, her cheeks full and coated with pink icing. "This is the yummiest yummy cake in the world."

I smiled and set my fork down, reaching to hold her tiny face in my hands. As she chewed and looked at me curiously, I kissed her on the forehead and lingered there for a long moment. There would come a day where she'd want to celebrate with her friends at the mall instead of at home with me, but that day wasn't today. Today, Clemmie was happy with a two-person party, sitting at the dining room table with her dad. And no matter how old she got, I would never lose that memory.

"Happy birthday, Clemmie."

She smiled at me, her teeth ringed with pink, and said in her goofy voice, "Happy birthday, Daddy!"

…

I race towards the water before Skye says anything. I don't need her to tell me that's where Clemmie is. I already know. There's been a sinking feeling in my gut since the girls left the Kepners' house, and it wasn't just because we were with April's parents. I sensed that something was wrong, but didn't trust myself until it was too late.

I've never prayed in my life, but right now I pray it _isn't_ too late. I've never run as fast as I do to get to the water, but I spin around before I get there because April is right behind me.

"Stay here," I demand, not out of aggression but necessity.

Two reasons. One, Skye needs her. Two, I can't lose her.

"Stay. Here," I say, my voice clogged and pitchy. "Stay with her."

"Okay," April whimpers, and backs up while keeping her eyes on me.

I don't waste any more time. I splash ungracefully into the waves and dive under as soon as I'm able. I don't let my mind wander. I came in to do one thing: save my daughter. I won't let any worst-case scenarios drift into my consciousness right now, because I can't afford them. I'm going to find Clemmie, and I'm going to pull her out alive.

I swim as hard as I can. I'm not a swimmer by nature, I don't exactly enjoy it, but Michael Phelps would be jealous of my speed. I have to find her.

It takes me longer than I'd like, longer than I expected, to see her. And she only catches my eye because of the yellow cardigan she has on. She's floating face-up, thank god, but her eyes are closed and her mouth is slack, lips open.

"Clementine!" I shout, and breast stroke as strongly as I can towards her.

I can't touch the sandy ground anymore, so hauling her back to shore isn't easy. I don't want to put her face underwater, but she's so limp and waterlogged that it's hard to keep control of her position.

"Clemmie, can you hear me?" I say, paddling with one hand.

I have one arm around her waist, and only now do I realize how small she feels. She's just a kid, my baby. She is not about to die on me.

"Almost there," I pant, using my feet now to propel me along. "Almost there. Just hang on. We're gonna make it."

When I reach the shallows, carrying her becomes more difficult. Her clothes make her body ten times heavier, so by the time we're on the sand, I'm awkwardly dragging her with my hands tucked under her armpits.

"Is she breathing?!" April shrieks once I lay Clemmie down. It doesn't happen very gently at all, but that's the least of my worries.

I kneel and hover with my ear over her mouth. I don't hear anything, nor do I feel any gusts of air. "No," I say.

I've heard my fair share of patients stop breathing. It's a strange, flat, anticlimactic sound. But when I hear that silence from my own daughter, it forces bile into my throat. I turn away moments before it comes, and I retch on my hands and knees into the sand, my entire body convulsing.

"I know CPR," April says, flying into action. "She's fine. I can…"

Without finishing her sentence, April begins compressions on Clemmie's fragile chest. My little girl has never looked weaker than she does right now, or more delicate. With the amount of force that April is exerting, it looks like she's breaking our daughter. I know that it's necessary, but the sight of it makes me throw up all over again.

"One, two, three, four, five," April says, then plugs Clemmie's nose and puffs into her mouth. Then, she starts all over. "One, two, three, four five." Puff. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

"Mama…" Skye sobs, crawling over wearing barely anything. It's freezing out here. She's shivering so hard that her whole body vibrates. I realize that I can't feel my body, but I don't care. I keep my eyes trained on Clemmie.

"Stop it!" April barks, silencing Skye. "One, two, three, four, five." Puff. "One, two…"

Up until this point, the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard was our first twin - Clemmie - taking her first breath. But the sound of her gasping for air now, being flipped by her mother so she can vomit seawater, is ten times more gorgeous.

"Thank you, God," April says, as seemingly every muscle in her body goes slack. She throws her arms around Clemmie and cries without making any sound. I can only tell she's crying because of the movement of her shoulders. "Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you."

I've never been more exhausted or relieved in my life. I don't know what else to do besides pull Skye in to join April and Clemmie's embrace, closing my eyes while burying my face in one of my daughter's sopping wet hair. At this point, I'm not sure who the hair belongs to, but I honestly don't care. They're both here and they're both okay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Skye wails. "I let her go in. I should've stopped her. Clemmie, Mama, I'm so sorry…"

"Shhh…" April says, soothing us all.

"I'm sorry," Clemmie croaks, and I rejoice just hearing her voice. That voice that called out for me in the middle of the night when she was small and sworn at me when she got bigger. I love that voice. I thought I would never hear it again. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," April whispers.

"Neither of you are stupid," I echo.

Skye adjusts and, for a moment, I think she's going to hug her sister. But instead, she shoves her by the shoulders - roughly, too. Clemmie looks just as surprised as I feel.

"Skye, hey now," April says.

"You scared me!" Skye cries, tears streaming down her already-wet cheeks. "I thought you were dead!"

"I'm sorry," Clemmie says, sniffling.

"I thought you were dead," Skye says, then throws her arms around Clemmie's neck. "I love you. Don't ever do that to me again."

"I won't," Clemmie mutters, facing over Skye's shoulder.

After the four of us are all cried out - at least, for the time being - Karen speaks up. I had totally forgotten she and Joe were here, so it's a surprise to see them standing worriedly off to the side.

"The rain's going to keep steady," she says. "You should come back to our house and warm up. You'll all get pneumonia if you stay out here any longer."

We need refuge. We need to take showers and change into warm clothes. I don't give April the chance to refuse - I answer for all of us by saying, "Thanks, Karen. We'll take you up on that."

**APRIL**

Before the four of us - myself, Jackson, my mom, and my dad - left for the beach, things hadn't exactly been going well. My dad had finally come inside, but in his typical fashion, he sat at the dining room table and didn't say anything.

My mom was in denial, which I had expected. I came here knowing that we might leave with a severed relationship, and I had to make peace with myself about that.

The argument had been going in circles until Jackson asked about the girls. At first, I wasn't worried. I guessed that Skye might take Clemmie to our old house to show her around; I knew for a fact that no one else was living there yet. But then they were gone for too long, and the weather took a turn for the worst. So, we went searching.

And now, we're here. Soaking wet and beached on the sand, accepting help from my parents who rarely offer it. I'm not irritated with Jackson for taking them up on the offer, either. I like that he's begun to take charge. The way he beelined for the water in search of Clementine showed a side of him that I haven't seen for a long time. I missed it.

He made the right decision, too. The chilly rain seeps into all of our bones, and my girls are trembling violently. Skye still looks terrified and Clemmie, worn out. I need to get them warm, safe, and away from all this.

"I don't know how we're getting back up that hill," Jackson says, lifting Clementine into his arms in one fluid motion. As I'm crumpled on the ground looking up at them, I can suddenly see him parenting her alone when she was small. Picking her up when she fell, kissing her bruises, encouraging her to keep moving. He's a good father. He always has been. Things just got lost along the way.

"Julian is coming with the Jeep," Mom says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn't know how we were going to get back up, either. "Here he is."

The Jeep careens through the sand, and Julian clambers out as soon as it stops. "Jesus Christ, are you guys okay?!" he spews, wrapping me in the tightest hug I've gotten from him in a while. "Bop, what happened?"

"Everything's fine," I say, much too tired to relive it. "We just need to go home."

…

There are two bathrooms in the house, and we let the girls shower first. But while Clemmie is getting clean, I sit on the closed toilet lid in the steamy bathroom - I can't leave her. I'm not ready to do that yet.

At first, neither of us speaks. The water splashes as Clemmie stands under it, and I can't think of anything to say. I take a moment to consider that I might be in shock, but is that silly? It wasn't me who almost drowned, it was Clemmie. But I almost lost her, and it's hitting me hard.

For 14 years, I couldn't hold her. But in my mind, I still had her. Some part of me always knew I'd get her back somehow, one way or another. The fact that she was simply alive somewhere on this earth allowed me to sleep at night.

The thought of putting her in the ground, never getting to touch her again, never getting to see her smile or roll her eyes again, is one that I can't reconcile. We came close today. Way too close.

I sit with my head in my hands for as long as it takes Clemmie to get warm and clean. When she comes out in a towel, still quiet, I wrap my arms around her torso and bury my face in the plush, blue microfiber. I don't say anything.

She goes limp and I pull her onto my lap like I never got to do when she was a toddler. I never got to lift her off the sidewalk after a nasty fall, or press a band-aid onto a skinned knee. This is the best I can do, but I'm doing it. At least I'm here now.

Clemmie lays her forehead on my shoulder and cries hard. I rub her back as droplets from her hair dampen my already cold t-shirt, and close my eyes. "I got you," I whisper. "It's okay."

She continues to cry, and I feel it throughout her entire body. I rock her like I did many, many years ago, and try to soothe her. The best I can do is be here.

Finally, after a long time, she catches her breath. Without picking her head up, she whispers, "I'm so sorry, Mommy."

…

Later, after me, Jackson, and the twins are showered, we're all sitting on the couch. I have one arm around either of my daughters, their heads resting on my chest, and Jackson is beside Clemmie. He still hasn't let go of her hand.

My mom is in the kitchen making her famous homemade chicken noodle soup. She even makes the noodles from scratch. It was mine and Julian's favorite when we were growing up; the smell brings me back to my childhood. I didn't ask her to make it, she just did. It's the warmest gesture she's shown in a while.

I don't know where Julian went, but he must be with Dad. I think the scene he came up on at the beach bothered him more than he's able to say. He needs time. We all do.

The girls have been quiet for a while. Due to the slow rhythm of their breath and the slackness of their muscles, they must be asleep. It makes me feel good just to have them close, both of them in one piece. It reminds me of when they were babies, and always got hungry at the same time. I'd sit in their nursery, rocking in that secondhand chair with Jackson on the footrest, and hold them similarly to the way I am right now.

I cup a hand over each of their ears, kiss Clemmie's hairline and then Skye's.

"I was scared today," I whisper to Jackson. I don't want to wake up the kids. "Really scared. I know you were, too."

I wait for him to respond, but he doesn't. I keep going anyway. It feels good to talk to him, to get our feelings on the same plane.

"You saved her, Jackie," I say, stroking Clemmie's cheek with my thumb. "You were there when she needed you. She's here thanks to you." I pause, staring at nothing in particular. "In more ways than one, really."

Still, he doesn't say anything. I crane my neck to see his face, only to discover that he's been asleep this whole time. I smile to myself and lean back again, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. I'll talk to him later. He needs to rest. I would rest, too, if it were possible. But I don't feel tired.

I pass the time by listening to my mom in the kitchen - that is, until the sounds stop. I open my eyes to see her sitting in the armchair across from the couch where me and my family sit, appearing so suddenly that she almost makes me jump.

Instinctively, I move to situate. I try to make my position more appropriate to compensate for her presence. Before I can, though, she puts a hand up and says, "No, don't."

I relax again and watch her face, wondering what to expect. A lecture? Another disownment? Or does she just plan on staring at us until the soup is ready?

"You were brave today," she finally says, eyes on the carpet. "Both of you were."

"Oh," I say, stunned. "Thanks."

She lifts her head, but still doesn't meet my eyes. They're centered above my forehead, wandering.

"You didn't hesitate," she says. "Neither of you. You dove right in after them. You weren't scared at all."

I chuckle humorlessly. "We were scared, Mom."

"It didn't matter, then. You still went in."

I furrow my eyebrows. "Of course we did," I say. "They're our kids. Our babies, Mom."

She's quiet for a while, wringing her hands and pressing the pads of her thumbs together. "I guess… I assumed that _you_ would go in. But him…" She shakes her head. "He surprised me today. He grew up."

"No," I say, as stern as I can without disrupting those around me. "I mean, yes. He has grown up. But he was always good. He didn't have to grow into his morals, he always had them. Even when we disagreed, he always wanted what was best for the girls. And before they were born, he wanted what was best for me."

"Well," Mom says.

"Well, what?"

"He should've let you go, then. To an Ivy League, like you wanted."

"I never wanted that," I say, tension rising in my chest. "You and Dad did. Actually, I don't think Dad gave a shit. But you wanted me in an Ivy League because… I don't even know why. But that wasn't what I wanted my future to look like."

"What did you want, then?" she asks. "I'm sure you didn't picture yourself as a struggling single mother. I'm sure you didn't picture bringing your daughter here and having everyone on the island wonder why she doesn't look like you." She sighs. "I wanted you at an Ivy League because I wanted better for you than what I had. Every mother wants that. There's nothing wrong with it."

I take a deep breath. "No, there's nothing wrong with wanting better. But when you classify 'better' as 'making babies with a white guy,' that's when there's something wrong."

"April Shay," Mom says. "Stop putting words in my mouth. I never said there was anything wrong with Jackson being black. Not once did I say that."

"You didn't need to," I say. "You just hinted at it. People on the island thinking that Skye didn't look like me? Honestly?" I lower my voice, conscious of Jackson and the kids sleeping. "She looks _just_ like me. When she smiles, my dimples show. Our eyes are exactly the same shape. Her body looks just like mine did as a teenager, right down to the freckles. And you really think people assumed she wasn't mine?"

"Not that she wasn't yours," Mom says, backtracking. "But people's minds went straight to…"

"To what? To her black father? Well, good for Skye. She has a wonderful, black father. His genes helped make her beautiful skin, her curly hair… and also her integrity, her sense of humor, and her horrible sense of direction."

Mom sighs loudly. "I don't think you're understanding me," she says. "I'm not trying to say anything wrong."

"Mom, it's not about what you say," I tell her, trying to be gentle. I know that some of this is on me. We should've had this conversation a long time ago. "Not always, anyway. It's about what you don't say, and what you don't do."

"What do you mean?" she asks. "I did everything for Skye. She was here just as much as she was at her own home."

"No, I know," I say. "I don't mean…"

"I taught her how to play violin. That's a skill she'll always have."

"Yes, you did. But…the songs you had her play. Who writes them? Mozart, Bach, Debussy, the usual suspects."

"Well, yes. Of course. I don't know what you're insinuating."

"What about William Grant Still, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, or Florence Price? They're black composers."

"I didn't know of them," Mom says. "If I had, I would've taught her. I'm sure I would have."

"But that's what I mean," I say. "It was our responsibility to learn about culture other than ours, so we could teach her. She didn't have Jackson around for that, and I didn't do the best job. God knows, I always tried. I read so many books, but I could've done more. I never wanted her to feel alienated from half of who she was, but I'm sure she did. I'm sure we'll have to resolve that someday. But what I'm saying is… you never tried to help me. You never asked if we were doing okay."

"You never brought it up," Mom says.

"Sometimes I just really needed you to ask," I say. "I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk about Jackson and how much I missed him. I wanted to talk about doubts I had with Skye. And I wanted to talk about that stuff with _you_."

"I didn't know," Mom says softly.

"I know you think I made a mistake with Jackson, but I didn't," I say. "I loved him, and I still do. But I love you guys, too. When you and Dad stopped talking to me… I didn't think I'd come back from that."

Mom bows her head.

"Why did you do that?" I ask. "Why would you just leave us to deal with something as big as two babies all on our own?"

She clasps her hands again. "I was so angry with you," she says. "The potential you had… I felt like you wasted it. All you ever wanted to do was mess around with him. He distracted you."

"We were young, Mom," I say. "You can't fault us for that."

"Your life went completely off track when you started seeing him romantically," she says.

"For a little while," I say. "But doesn't that happen to everyone? No one's life goes completely like it should. But look at me now. I work at the Art Institute of Chicago. My dream job, Mom. This is all I've ever wanted. Don't you see?"

She blinks and stays silent for a long time, going over everything that was said. "I do," she says - and I'm so surprised to hear those words that I can't really respond. I just sit and wait for her to finish. "Today, it was clear to me how much he loves the girls, and you, and how much you love him. It was clear to me for the first time."

She takes a breath and pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

"A long time ago, I told the two of you that you didn't know anything about love. I see now that I was wrong," she says. "Wrong about a lot of things."

My eyes grow hot hearing what my mom has to say. She's never been this open with me, not once in my entire life. "Thanks," I say. "Hearing that means a lot."

"I'll try to do better," she says, and I feel like she means it. "We want to be included in your life. Your dad and me. We missed you when you left."

"You did?" I ask.

"Of course," she says softly. "I liked having you here. With you and Skye on the island with us, it felt… close to whole. And now…" She scans the three people on the couch with me. "Well, now, it is whole. I don't want to lose that."

"I don't, either," I say, then squeeze my girls tighter. "But I don't think we will this time."

…

That night, Jackson, the girls and I share the guest room. The four of us are crammed onto a queen-sized bed, and I'm right in the middle. Everyone wanted a piece of me, so we managed.

Once again, everyone is sleeping and I'm awake. A myriad of memories begin to float through my head, so many that I have a hard time latching onto just one. But what sticks out the most is Skye's fourth birthday party. It's funny, because the party wasn't fancy or ostentatious - in fact, it was barely a party at all.

As usual, we were at the beach. Instead of wearing a party dress like Nana had wanted, Skye opted for a pink and white swimsuit from the summer before. She didn't care that the colors were faded and it fit a little too tightly. It was her favorite, and that's what mattered. Since it was her birthday and we were the only ones on the beach, I didn't mind that she wore it. It was her choice.

She had a special dinner with her uncle and grandparents the day before, and couldn't think of any friends to invite. So, that day, her actual birthday, the only two in attendance were me and the birthday girl. The dynamic duo.

As Skye played in the sand by the water, building a hill so she could watch the water destroy it, I couldn't help but let her father and sister cross my mind. What were they doing today? Would they have a party? Would he miss me, miss us? I had no idea. But this day, Skye and Clemmie's birthday, was by far the hardest day of the year. I wondered if it was tough for him, too.

On a day where I was supposed to celebrate Skye, I always found myself mourning her sister. Her sister who was still alive, and had no use for my grief. The day never passed easily, though I always pasted on a smile for Skye. The twin in front of me, the twin I could hold.

"Burt-day, burt-day!" Skye cheered, totally unaware of her adorable speech impediment. "It's my burt-day, and the water burt-day, and the sand burt-day, and everyone in the whole world burt-day!" She giggled and crawled over to give me a hug, subsequently covering me in grainy sand. But I didn't care. "And your burt-day, Mama!" she shrieked. "You say happy burt-day to me, and I say it to you. Okay, go."

Playing along, I said, "Happy birthday, KyKy."

She squealed, amused with herself. Then she stretched her arms out wide, stood up tall, and said, "Happy burt-day, Mama!"


End file.
